


how close am i

by alpacas



Series: apart, together [2]
Category: How I Met Your Mother
Genre: F/M, divorce fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:37:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 87,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5184056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpacas/pseuds/alpacas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a time, only six months ago, there was a time, for years, there was a time — there was a time where she'd really, actually been stupid enough to think they were going to last forever. Robin doesn't know how she could have gotten it so wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. about yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> hola! quick author's note (…quick-ish author's note) before we get started!
> 
> a: this is a sequel to my story 'i turned around, my life was changing,' but if you haven't read that one, you'll still probably do okay with this: some elements may not make sense, but most plot points from there left unresolved will be re-adressed in the course of this story, and the story itself ended in much the same way as B/R did on the show after their trip to argentina.
> 
> b: while 'turned around' was canon compliant (aside from me screwing up the timeline in a couple of places, whoops), this story is very much not. basically, 'turned around' was me trying to see if there was any ic way to lead up to a B/R split up; 'how close' is me going 'okay, but here's what i think realistically might have happened next.' you know, if the gang remembered that they cared about barney and robin, and if barney's job had been more than a one-off joke.
> 
> c: right now i'm looking at around a dozen chapters, this prologue, and an epilogue. compared to 'turned around,' i don't think this story will be updated as quickly; the plot is way more complicated and much more gang-centric. but bear with me!
> 
> tl;dr: this is one of those "after the divorce b/r get back together after realising they are morons" stories. i hope you enjoy it!

_Kids, do you remember the first time we went to Washington?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Washington D.C.**

**Friday, April 10th,**

**2020.**

 

 

It takes some maneuvering, but Ted manages to get himself, the bags, a half-asleep Luke, and Penny out of the cab without dropping anything or losing anyone. The day is mild and sunny, trees starting to grow fuzzy with leaves, grass and flowers starting to spring back to life in the sunny patches of townhouse gardens. Ted shifts Luke to try and ease his aching arms, and looks for Penny, who has run halfway down the block while waiting for him to pay the cab.

"Get back here, kiddo," he calls, thanking the driver and awkwardly shutting the door. He bounces Luke again, half hoping the toddler will wake up so he can put him down for a moment.

"Daddy, I see some daffodils!" Penny announces, clambering up the wrought iron fence of one of the townhomes and pointing into the garden.

"I bet you do," Ted says, carefully bending down to pick the overnight bag and canvas 'kid bag' up off the sidewalk. "Come on, sweetie, let's go."

Penny runs back to her father and brother. "Which one is Uncle Barney's house?" she asks.

"It's the white Italianate townhouse… with a black front door with a fanlight. Do you remember what a fanlight is?" Of course, it'd be easier to say  _the one to the left_ , but Ted believes that the more Penny learns now, the more she'll remember as she grows.

She frowns. "When there's a window on top of he door?" She looks around, and picks out a house from the row. "That one!"

"Great job, honey!" Ted really wishes Luke would wake up. He jiggles the three-year-old once more, and sets off the short walk to the house. There isn't much in the front garden, grass or otherwise, and he lets Penny navigate the steps in front of him.

"Does Uncle Barney know about fanlights?" Penny asks as they climb.

"Seriously doubt it," Ted hazards, putting down the overnight bag to ring the doorbell.

"Does Aunt Robin know about fanlights?"

"Probably not. Hey, look how much smarter you are than them!"

"Does Johnny Lawrence know about fanlights?" Penny asks, grinning mischievously up at her father.

"Now that one I would believe," Ted says, ringing the bell again.

He hears the dog barking from inside the house at the same time he hears Barney yell: "Dude, I'm  _coming_. Keep your pants on!" He opens the door a moment later, any annoyance at being rushed instantly replaced by an easy grin. Ted notes he's gone tieless for the day, but, "Where's the sweater?"

"Wow, that never gets old," Barney says sarcastically. The friends exchange a brief grin and awkward one armed hug, and then Barney's crouching down in front of Penny. "Hey! Who are you?"

"I'm  _Penny_ ," the little girl says, biting back her smile.

"Naaaah," Barney says. "Penny's a little baby —" he gestures to a spot about a foot above the ground, "and you're way too  _old_."

"I'm  _five_! Uncle Barney, quit it!"

"It's too bad, I wanted to see  _Penny_ and  _Luke_ ," Barney says with a very dramatic sigh, standing back up, brushing off his trouser legs. "Ted, I thought you said you were bringing the kids?"

"Uncle Barney! It's me! I'm Penny! And that's Luke!" she protests, pointing up at her sleeping brother.

"Dude," Ted says, half laughing, half a warning to cut back on the teasing: Penny's starting to look like she isn't sure if her uncle really  _did_ forget her.

"Okay, okay, I'm just kidding," Barney says, reaching for and taking Luke out of Ted's arms. Ted shakes his head, used to it. "Good thing you're the real Penny, since I bought her a present."

"You  _did_?" And they were friends again, Penny taking Barney's proffered hand. Ted, now completely divested of his children, shakes his head and follows the party into the house. With black walls and dark wood flooring, the house doesn't look all that different from the Fortress, although white accents give it the sort of designer touch that comes from… well, from hiring an interior decorator to take care of all that stuff, knowing Barney.

Even the Dalmatian that trots up to them all for sniffing and greetings matches the black and white color scheme. He sticks his nose right into Penny's face, and she gives a nervous giggle, rubbing his ears as he sniffs wetly at her. "Daddy, Johnny Lawrence is licking me!" she says, dropping the bag of toys where she stands to give the dog her full attention.

"How was the train?" Barney asks, leading them into the modern living room.

There are two wrapped packages on the coffee table, one in green and the other in blue. They're suspiciously large, and Barney gives a sheepish grin to Ted's look of exasperation.

"The ride wasn't too bad," Ted says, deciding lecturing Barney for the thousandth time will be, as ever, pointless. Penny gives a gasp of delight when she spots the packages, and makes for them both, the dog, tail wagging, following after her. "Luke had some trouble with it, but me and Penny had a good time looking out the window, didn't we?" he says, putting down the overnight bags and his canvas bag of toys beside the sofa with some relief: he looks to Penny for confirmation, but between the dog and the packages on the table, she clearly couldn't care less about train rides and bonding family experiences. Ted sighs and sinks down onto the sofa.

Plate glass windows at the back of the living room overlook a small terrace, and the glass doors have been left open, to allow the warm spring breeze into the house. Ted spots a white rabbit sniffing around in the grass of the backyard.

"She still lets you keep rabbits?" He nods out towards the backyard.

"Hoppenheimer is an integral part of this family," Barney says with an offended huff.

"Dude, it's the same rabbit?" How long do rabbits live? Ted gives the rabbit second look, feeling a grudging respect.

"Uncle Barney, which one is my present?" Penny asks, interrupting the conversation.

"I wrote your name on it," Barney says. "D'you know how to read yet?"

" _Yes_ ," the five-year-old sniffs indignantly.

"Kind of," Ted corrects under his breath. Barney grins.

"Well, it's the one that says 'Penny,'" Barney informs his niece. "Hey, Luke," he says in a gooier voice than usual, sinking down onto the couch and bouncing Luke in his arms. "hey, you wanna wake up and have a  _present_? Johnny Lawrence wants to say hi to you, bro, and wow, you're super heavy. What have your mom and dad been  _feeding_ you?"

Ted sits back into the sofa. Aside from the presents on the coffee table, he also notes two bottles of beer, a bowl of pretzels, and a pair of juice boxes. He shakes his head at that, smiling, rubbing his shoulder with the palm of his hand.

Penny goes for the green package. "Is it this one?"

"You bet, kiddo," Barney says, still cooing at Luke, who stubbornly refuses to wake up. Ted wishes him luck: the kid is almost impossible to rouse until he's good and ready. Johnny Lawrence trots over to Ted for attention, and he scratches at the Dalmatian's ears. The dog hops up on the sofa and rests his head on Ted's lap, tail thumping cheerfully.

"So how have you been? Work keeping you busy?" Ted asks, as Barney gives up on waking Luke.

"Oh, crap, that reminds me!" Barney says, jiggering Luke to look at his watch, and then reach for the TV's remote. He clicks the TV on the wall on and flicks through the channels; Ted sits up to reach for one of the beers.

"Daddy! Look, it's an art set! And coloring books! And there's  _paints_!" Penny exclaims, her voice reaching volumes high enough to be heard back in New York — and rouse Luke, who immediately fusses. Barney looks from the TV to the toddler in his lap in alarm, as Luke begins to mutter, his face scrunching up.

"Ted, Ted, Ted," Barney says urgently, TV forgotten.

"Give him here," Ted says, pushing away Johnny Lawrence and divesting Barney of the angry three-year-old. His friend immediately turns his attention to Penny, helping her tear open the watercolors at the coffee table. Ted rolls his eyes a little, and focuses on trying to settle Luke back down. "Come on, buddy, look where we are! We're at your Uncle Barney's house!" Luke makes an unhappy sound. Johnny Lawrence settles down on the empty half of the sofa. Barney and Penny discuss the best way to paint the dinosaurs in her colouring book.

The scene on the television changes from a news studio to a plush meeting room, the president sitting in a Queen Anne chair across from a beautiful woman with short, dark hair. Ted's attention is almost completely distracted from Luke; he watches the opening seconds without blinking.

"Dude," Barney grins, almost vibrating from excitement, pointing up at the TV, and Ted takes all of that as one big  _yes_ , "that's the  _president_. Of  _America_!"

"Dude, that's your  _wife_ ," Ted says, disturbing Luke as he almost jumps to his feet in his eagerness to slap Barney's outstretched hand. Penny looks confused at them both and at the TV, and Luke starts grumbling again.

" _Yeah_ it is," says Barney as their hands connect. "Check it out, Pen; Aunt Robin's on TV with the  _president_ ," he says, offering his hand to the little girl for a second high five, which she gives dubiously. "Isn't that awesome? Isn't that —"

 

* * *

 

 

_Kids, that was a big weekend. We saw the Smithsonian, the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial — we saw your Aunt Robin interviewing the president, and toured your uncle Barney's work. Luke almost fell into the reflecting pool, and Penny, remember that stuffed tiger your Aunt Robin bought you at the zoo? You had that thing for years._

_The road to that weekend was long, and there were times that, if you told me then it was in all of our futures, I wouldn't have believed it. Reaching it was a long, difficult road for all of us, for your Aunt Robin, and especially your Uncle Barney._

_I don't usually have to remind you guys of things like this, but:_

_This story has a happy ending._


	2. liar liar

_you just walked away_

_and i just watched you_

_what could i say?_

_how close am i to losing you?_

 

 

**Thursday, October 6th,**

**2016.**

 

Barney is walking down the courthouse steps, his head turned back, his expression tight and wary; his suit jacket buttoned, his tie unusually colorful, bringing out the blue of his eyes. He looks focused, determined…  _handsome_ , even in the low-quality photo on the  _New York Post_ 's front page. The headline reads  _ **LIAR LIAR**_ : the person behind it had probably chosen the picture, hoping Barney would look sinister and untrustworthy instead of sharp and rakish.

But then, Robin reflects, her ex-husband always  _had_  photographed well.

Part of her, the sick, masochistic part that seems to make up  _most_  of her nowadays, wants to buy this or any other New York paper featuring the AltruCell case, which has lately been most of them. The rest of her thinks she'd probably be better off avoiding the heartbreak and picking up a trashy airport novel instead. Stephen King sounds like a great idea for this stage of her life.

"What do you think?"

Robin starts, not having expected anyone to address her, and sees that a woman in her sixties has also started perusing the newspapers at this airport kiosk. If 'starting blankly at your ex' counts as perusing. "About what?" she asks warily, forcing her expression into a blank smile.

"The  _case_ ," the woman says. When Robin doesn't immediately answer — how can she? — her fellow traveller answers for herself. "They're saying now that that Barney Stinson made it all up. Faked evidence to bring down his old boss."

Robin works her jaw and slides into her reporter voice, even as her arms wrap around herself to keep herself together. "And what do you think?" she asks.

"AltruCell was bad news," the woman sniffs. "Whether it's him or someone else, thank God the Feds are tearing them down. They should  _all_  go to jail for a long time. My husband's brother worked for Goliath National Bank up in New York, you know. Lost his job in the merger. Didn't even get a severance!"

"I'm sorry to hear that," Robin says.

"No, they're all liars," the woman continues, her voice growing louder in her clear outrage. "This Barney Stinson acts like a big whistle-blowing hero, but why are the Feds giving him immunity if he hasn't done anything to needimmunity  _from_ , eh? He was some hot-shot executive at Goliath, pah. No, the  _Post_ is right about this one, he's just a dirty liar. The Feds should be ashamed to be using him as their chief witness, but that's the government for you. Have you been following this?"

"Nope," Robin lies, her chest feeling tight from anxiety. "I don't really follow the news." Her smile feels more like a grimace at this point, and she lets it drop from her face, biting back the urge to — well, to say all sorts of things to the woman. Things she can't say anymore. Things she doesn't want to say, things she isn't even sure she believes.

"Well,  _I_ most certainly do, and —" the woman is off again, and Robin tunes her out without feeling badly about it. She stares at the photo again, Barney turning to look back at the photographer as he leaves his hearing. She imagines the others, probably just out of frame: Lily's body rigid with anger, Marshall standing at his full height, frowning in concentration, Ted, open and concerned, Tracy, holding herself back a little, waiting to decide what action to take. And Robin, in Mexico City.

Doesn't matter. That photograph, that life, that's not hers anymore. Her companion is looking at her now. "Say, aren't you Robin Scherbatsky?" she asks, pronouncing the  _er_ as  _ar_.

"No," Robin says quickly. "I mean, who? I'm Katie. Katrina," she amends, pushing her voice into a strong Canadian accent for good measure. "I have to go," she adds, feeling like the least convincing liar on the planet.

She grabs the  _Post_ and hates herself for it, feels the familiar twist of dark anxiety as she does, and pays for it and her bottle of water at the kiosk's register before returning to her terminal with them and her suitcase. One of the TVs in the lounge has the news on mute: Robin sees the painfully familiar facade of AltruCell's downtown headquarters in an establishing shot and looks away.

It'd be a lot easier to all this behind her if Barney hadn't gone ahead and made himself big national news, she thinks bitterly. There's something a little funny about that, too, and she's struck with the urge to text him, chide him for always having to go and make things difficult. Robin is struck with this urge about eight times a day, in fact. She hasn't once given in. If he's ever had that urge, he's fought it too. They haven't spoken in just about six months.

She skims and then re-reads the  _Post_ article, but the woman at the kiosk had basically covered all the salient points in their conversation. After three years of trial preparation and hearings, the criminal cases for Greg Fisher, a handful of other high-ranking AltruCell employees, and AltruCell Corporation itself are now underway; key witness being government whistle blower-slash-FBI mole Barney Stinson. Only Fisher's lawyers had landed on the most obvious, and strongest, possible defense: that Barney was making the whole thing up. The defense claims that Barney fabricated evidence and acted on his own to frame Fisher and AltruCell for his own illegal actions. And of course, Barney had been  _stupid_ enough to admit,  _repeatedly_ , that all he had done he had done for revenge.

Because, of course, his need to show off and win everything he does could  _never_ come back to bite him in the ass. Moron. The  _Post_ 's tone is extremely negative towards her ex-husband, and a large part of her agrees: he's a lying ass, he doesn't mean anything he says, he doesn't care about anything he says he does —

The rest of her feels sick and twisted up, remembering, thinking about things she told herself she had shut the door on. The night they'd gotten him so drunk he'd told them his job for the first time: the night before their wedding. Lying in bed, eating pizza and watching the news of the raid, cheering each arrest, him smiling into her neck, kissing her. Him talking, late at night, unable to sleep the night before his first Grand Jury testimony —

Lately — okay, for the past six months; okay, since the minute they split up — all Robin's been doing is vacillating between one extreme and the other: missing him with every pore of her body, hating him with every breath she takes. Her new deal with herself is to simply not think about it it at all, so by the time she's finished with her re-read, she feels tense and sick to her stomach, wondering desperately what he's thinking at the same time part of her thinks he and his lies have this coming.

She folds the  _Post_ with shaky hands and checks the time on her phone: still half an hour until her flight boards. Maybe this was a bad idea. She'd thought six months away from New York, six months away from — avoiding — her friends, their casual mentions of her ex, still hanging out with him, still on his side… not that there  _are_ sides, she reminds herself. Amicable divorce. They're staying friends. (yeah, right.) She'd thought after six months, some of this pressing dread would have faded, that she  _could_ be amicable. But the thought of seeing Barney again… the thought of having to talk to her friends, possibly  _about_ him, makes her feel sick with dread. It'd be so easy to say he's too busy to meet up, to take off to Dubai, but Robin knows objectively that putting things off won't make things easier, and this has to be taken care of sooner or later. No: she's Robin Scherbatsky. She's going to rip this bandaid.

It'd probably be a favor to him, too, anyway. With the trial, and all that. Best get these things taken care of sooner, rather than later.

Robin finds herself staring blankly at her contact list. She wavers between two names for a moment, before choosing one.  _Big girl pants, RJ._

Lily answers on the third ring, sounding harried. "Hello?"

"Hey, Lily?" Robin says, suddenly awkward in the awareness that it's been almost a month since their last conversation. And that their last conversation had ended abruptly when Lily had brought up the divorce.

Lily is silent for an anxious second. "Oh my gosh,  _Robin_?" She sounds mostly happy, Robin decides, and exhales.

"Yeah, it's me! Surprise!" she says, trying to sound enthusiastic.

"I'll say," Lily says, and maybe Robin kind of deserves the reproachful tone, so she lets it slide. Lily perks back up quickly. "How are you?  _Where_ are you? What's going on?"

"Um, I'm in South Carolina on a layover," Robin says, shifting in the stiff lounge chair, "but I'm actually on my way back to New York!"

"You are?" Lily quickly sobers. "For how long?" Robin hesitates. "For how long?" Lily asks again, more firmly.

"I… don't really know yet," Robin says. She hears Lily sigh, tinny over the phone. "A couple of weeks?" Lily falls silent again, and Robin feels a surge of annoyance replace her anxiety. That's good. Annoyance is far better. "Look, Lily, you  _know_ we can't just… go back to the way things used to be."

"Why not?" Lily cries, sounding frustrated, sniffling.

"You  _know_ why not," Robin snaps, her fingers tightening around the phone, her other hand tightening on her elbow.

"No, I don't," Lily says, "because you haven't  _been here_. This is the first time we've talked in a  _month_ , and you—"

"Right," Robin interrupts, blinking rapidly, her heart pounding hot, "right, we haven't; and when was the last time you talked with  _Barney_?"

Lily falls silent. Robin presses her fist over her mouth to keep quiet, to keep Lily from hearing her breathing, closes her eyes and concentrates on forcing these thoughts away, this sick feeling of dread away. Her eyes fall on her folded up issue of the  _New York Post_. She'd been careful to place it so the headline faces up, her ex-husband out of sight. Out of mind.

"Robin, I'm on your side," says Lily after a long moment.

"You're still friends with him," Robin says bitterly, hating herself for her tone.

"Of course I am!" Lily says loudly. "I've been friends with you  _both_ for ten years, I can't just say goodbye to one of you — I thought you guys had an friendly… you know, breakup?"

"Divorce," Robin grits out, correcting Lily forcefully. "And yeah," they hadn't shaken hands, hadn't touched, had looked at one another, and there had been a couple of seconds, a couple of hours, it had felt like, where she'd waited for him to say something, and he'd broken eye contact first, looked at a spot above her head.  _I guess that's it_ , he'd said, and that was the last thing they had said to one another. She's  _not_ thinking about this. "but that doesn't mean it's easy for me. It's not like I want to hang around New York with my  _ex_. And I'm sure he feels exactly the same way."

"Robin," Lily asks hesitantly, "what  _happened_?"

"We broke up," Robin says. "It happens." This is why she hasn't called Lily, hasn't called Ted or Tracy or Marshall. She doesn't want questions, she doesn't want meddling, or the stupid intervention banner to be busted out. This is real, this is serious, this is done and over with. This is what they both agreed to do. "I didn't call you to talk about this," she says.

She hears Lily take a deep breath. "I know," she says. "Hey," she adds, throwing some more cheer into her voice, "when are you arriving? Later today? We can pick you up at the airport?"

"My flight lands at five, but I'll take a cab," Robin says, trying to match Lily's tone. "Maybe we can get together for coffee tomorrow?"

"Yeah," says Lily. "I'd like that."

"Me too." Robin bits her lip, looking out the large windows at the taxiing airplanes. "I think my flight just arrived."

"Robin?" Lily asks, sounding reluctant.

"Yeah?"

Lily is quiet for a second, and then sighs. "I know you don't want to talk about your breakup." Robin restrains the urge to correct Lily's terminology. "But it's about Barney."

She keeps her voice as flat as she can, "What about him?"

"You know about the trial, right?" Lily asks.

"Yeah," Robin says with a glance at the  _Post_. "I work in the news, I've heard of it," she says, her tone slightly more bitter than jokey.

"Things are pretty tense around here," says Lily. "Marshall says he and Ted might have to testify at a hearing, and Barney's really not doing well."

Why do they have to testify? What is he doing? How is he not doing well? Was he doing well before? "None of that has anything to do with me," Robin says flatly.

"Right," Lily says, and Robin feels a tremor of annoyance that she sounds disappointed. "it's just a big deal for … around here, and we can't avoid it completely, even for you."

"You mean, 'for us,'" Robin says. Lily doesn't correct her. She sighs, and this time lets Lily hear it. "I know. Look, I'm not some completely heartless asshole," she says. "It sucks that this is happening to Barney, and you're all his friends, so, I get it. Even with everything that happened between us, it's not like I want him to go to jail or anything."

"You used to be his friend too," Lily says. Robin tries very hard to stave off the anger, the hurt, to not look at the headline of the  _Post_ , the way that even though she folded it carefully, part of Barney's arm and hand show underneath the words, and it's the most she's seen of him in six months. It's like Ted once said. There's an off switch.

So she lets the accusation slide. "Yeah," she says. "But I'm probably the last person he wants to see right now." Lily seems to accept her words, or at least doesn't argue: Robin glances at the check-in stand and sees a line starting to form. "Hey, I really do have to go," she says. "But I'll see you tomorrow?" she asks uncertainly.

"Yeah," Lily sniffs. "See you tomorrow. Thanks for calling," she adds. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," Robin says, smiling weakly. "See you soon."

Despite the line forming, the flight to New York isn't boarding quite yet, and Robin stays where she is for a few minutes, concentrating on the anxious knot in her stomach until she feels it lesson. The last person her ex wants to see right now — well, he can join the club on that one. And here she is going to New York anyway. Robin sits forward, resting her elbows on her knees, looking at her phone.  _He's not doing well. The trial is a big deal for us._ Impulsively, she reaches again for her newspaper, carefully, hesitantly flipping it so she can see the picture again. It's hard to tell from it how he's doing: she's sure the  _Post_ picked the least flattering photo they had of him, and he still looks pretty good. But maybe he does seem a little drawn. Maybe it's just that he looks unusually serious. She catches herself touching the newsprint, her fingers on his cheekbone, and moves her hand away.

 _Christ_. Maybe Robin should blow off this whole thing, take a flight to Cuba or Jakarta instead. But this is why she called Lily. She's meeting her for coffee tomorrow. She can't back out now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Three hours later, Robin is standing in front of a building she doesn't know how to classify.  _Her_ building, her mind supplies automatically.  _Home_ , an even worse one.  _Barney's building_ , she tells herself, but it sounds strange, unfamiliar. This is the first time she's been here since the divorce.

Since she'd picked up her things. He hadn't been there. She'd only packed some of her clothing, left her key on the coffee table and let the doorman lock up. It had been quicker. Easier. She hadn't let himself wonder what he'd done with the things she'd left behind, not at all, not on planes or at night in hotel rooms.  _Get it over with, RJ_.

She doesn't really have a plan for dealing with the doorman, but he doesn't stop her on her way to the elevators, and she presses the button and tries not to look into the mirrored metal of the walls and tries not to have a panic attack and tries not to feel anything, actually. This is necessary. This is something they'd agreed on.

Robin hadn't called ahead, hadn't texted: if she's being completely honest, a part of her hopes that he won't even be home. How many times has she ridden this elevator over the years? How many times has she walked down this hallway? It all looks exactly the same. It's only been six months, of course it does, but she can't help but feel that it  _shouldn't_. She's not the same. Nothing is the same.

Her nerve fails her when she's in front of their — his — door. His door.  _Pull it together, RJ_. It's like Lily said. They had an amicable divorce. They said they would stay friends. That's a big steaming pile, but they  _said_ it. He looked tired in the picture. She steels herself and knocks on the door.

There's no response, and Robin's just about ready to shrug and give up — which is ridiculous, because  _this has to happen_ , and she wants it to happen — so she takes a deep breath and knocks again.

A few agonized seconds later and she hears the click of the lock.

Barney opens the door. "I was —" he starts to complain, but whatever he was doing dies on his tongue when he sees her standing there. She waits for a reaction, for him to start or speak, for his eyes to widen or a bad joke or something with his eyebrows or any one of a million things. (For him to smile at her, the way he did every day for so many years—)

He doesn't. He stays as he is, his hand on the doorknob, the door only partially opened, his expression… blank. Not upset, not angry, not happy,  _nothing_.

"Hi," she says, when he doesn't speak, and Robin hates herself a little for starting this off with  _hi_.

He doesn't react to that, either. "What are you doing here?" he asks, not sounding accusatory or… anything, really. Barely even curious.

"We need to talk," she says, wiping her hands on the legs of her pants. He doesn't move. "Can I come in?"

He gives a short, harsh laugh. "No," he says, just mockingly enough to make it clear that he thinks she's an idiot, and her heart does  _not_ clench, her throat does not get tight, it doesn't affect her at all except that she'd hoped they could handle this like adults.

He turns around, letting the door swing open slightly, and Robin is left to hover uncertainly in the doorway, unsure if she should obey his  _no_ or follow him in despite it. She feels like an idiot, which she angrily suspects is the point, but is quickly distracted.

He's redecorated. It makes sense: when she found out through Lily he'd stayed in the Fortress, she'd been a little surprised, even a little hurt (he'll stay with his shitty  _apartment_ , but not—). But this explains it. Every piece of furniture they'd bought, every little thing she'd changed, all that is gone. The magnets on the fridge, the utensils on the kitchen counter, the sofa they'd agonized for  _months_ over… It's fine. It makes sense. She's moved on, and so has he. It's fine.

Barney sits down on the sofa and Robin watches as he pulls on some earlier discarded shoes. She waits silently in the doorway as he picks up his wallet, phone, and keys. He glances at himself in the mirror that must still hang by the door as he returns, and she bites the inside of her cheek at the familiarity of it, Barney getting ready to leave, as she's seen him do hundreds of times before. At the way his routine is unchanged, but his expression is still cold, neutral. "We can talk at the coffee shop," he says, as she steps back to let him lock the door.

Something in her twists, at the unthinking way he said it, like he knows she knows which one he means. And of course she does: it's right on the corner, Robin's been there thousands of times. But it's the first time he's shown any recognition towards her at all. Any acknowledgement that she once existed here, in this apartment, that he used to smile when he saw her.

Not that she'd expected him to, exactly. But this blankness is …

They make the trip to the corner in silence. Barney briefly greets the doorman as they leave the — his — building, but even then his voice is uninterested, almost cold.

There's not a lot of people here at six thirty at night, and they order — green tea, no sugar for Barney, espresso for Robin — and sit at a tall table by the window. Robin hooks her ankle around the leg of her stool. The silence is getting to her, the way he barely looks at her, the way when he does, it's not happy or sad or  _angry_ , but with a vague disinterest, most of his attention at the street outside. For a while, Robin sits silently, waiting for her coffee to cool and trying to gather her thoughts. She feels unsettled, uneasy. This is the first time they've spoken, since…

And, well. And what? She'd expected a fight, maybe. She'd come braced for confrontation. Not… this.  _He's really not doing well_ , Lily had said, but he seems fine to Robin. He hadn't even reacted to her showing up at the — at his — door.

"So," she forces out at last, when she realizes he's  _never_ going to speak, or even look at her. His eyes flick towards her, and she sees dark shadows there. "It's been six months," she says.

"Right," he says, and he sighs, and it's not a sigh of  _longing_  or a sigh of  _reluctance_ , and it's not paired with any looks or feeling or sadness. He sounds exasperated, if anything.

"Right," she says with emphasis, tightening her jaw. "Sorry if this is ruining your day, but we agreed on this, and if this weird robot act is your way of backing out, forget it." She wonders if it is, if he's changed his mind, what she'll — they'll — do if he has.

"Trust me," Barney says, that faint, mocking tone back in his voice, the slight way he lifts his eyebrows, makes unflinching eye contact, "I'm not backing out. But isn't this the kind of thing you do through a lawyer? Who shows up at their ex's door unannounced?"

Her face grows hot. "Someone who figured her coward of an ex would have run away if he knew she was coming?" She wonders why neither of them are saying what they are. Ex-husband. Ex-wife.

He shrugs, unaffected. "So what do we have to talk about?"

"How about our divorce?" she snaps back. "You know, the whole reason I'm back in New York, six months later?"

He looks at her for a moment, and then his focus turns back to the window.

Robin takes a deep breath and forces herself to exhale it slowly. He is  _not_ getting under her skin. He is  _not_. "I thought we could save ourselves some money, time, and hassle and hire a single lawyer," she says. "He or she can look at all our assets together, we leave with what we started with, and… what?" she asks irritably, as the mocking look comes back in his eye.

"What assets? I'm not after your trust fund, Robin," he says.

"What about  _your_ assets?" she says cooly, unable to hide her annoyance any longer. She sees him clench his jaw, his gaze darting back out to the street. His Adam's Apple bobs. She feels a sick, bitter rush that she landed a hit, that she got a  _reaction_ , but it's tempered by an uneasy guilt. They hadn't made a pre-nup. He'd trusted her, once. He'd…

She looks down at her coffee. "Look, we already have separate accounts. There's no need for any of this to be complicated," she says, forcing herself into professional, calm, hitting the off switch in her mind, over and over again. "We find a lawyer, we make our official filing, none of our friends need to know."

"I'm not discussing assets," Barney says, and she frowns up at him, because it's… random, honestly.

"I know your assets," she says, annoyance creeping back into her voice. "Unless you're worried I'm going to find out about some big whistleblower's payout."

"It's not up for discussion," he says. "We can split a lawyer, we leave what we came in with, but you don't get a look at  _my_ stuff." He doesn't trust her, she realizes. He thinks she's going to steal his precious money, his precious suits and precious  _apartment_.

She takes the high road. "Fine. Like I give a crap," she mutters. "I've put aside a couple of weeks so we can do this as quickly as possible. When's the soonest you can meet with a lawyer?"

"I can't," says Barney, and she glares up at him. He's just being difficult on purpose, now. "Just do it yourself and send me the paperwork."

"Right," she says, irritated. "It must be nice, to just drift along, letting everyone else do the heavy lifting in life." The more she looks back on the past few years, the truer she realizes it is. She was the one who had to deal with all the problems. She was the one who had to  _handle_ things. The consequences of their actions. From their first,  _stupid_ one night stand, to the stuff last year to their trip six months ago, where she was the one who had to…

"You know me," he says, shifting his jaw. "Why do the work when you can just lie back and enjoy it?" There's an innuendo in there, but no high five, no amused cackle, nothing but a dark look, and she's happy to see it, happy to see him  _react_ , treat her like she's actually here.

"Trust me," she says, "I remember."

" _Yeah_ , you do," he leers, but there's no fondness, no joking lilt to his tone. He catches her eye for a long moment, and she's the one to break it.

"I should get going," she says, turning her cup around. She pushes back from the table, leaving Barney to look once more out the window. She wonders what the hell he finds so interesting out there.

"Robin," he says suddenly, his tone closest to sincere she's heard so far, and she stops all her movement, stops buttoning her coat. He almost seems to hesitate. "There's a chance you could get served."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't you watch the news?" he asks, the mocking creeping back in. "For the trial. They're trying to establish how much I told anyone about what I was doing back when I was undercover."

"Which is nothing," Robin says.

He gives a curt nod. "You're kind of the obvious person for them to ask." He runs his fingers over the lid of his cup. "My lawyers have been wanting me to reach out to you."

"Why haven't you?" she asks.

"Would you really have come if I'd called?" Barney looks at her, his expression sardonic, apathetic, and she thinks there's more than one meaning to this, and she doesn't know what to say. There was a time she would have, there was a time she would have dropped everything for him, a time where she  _did_ , where she tried to change her life views, her  _job_ , all to make him happy. And look where they are now.

"Probably not," she admits.

He smiles. It's the first time today, the first time in longer than she remembers, and it's a quick, fledgling thing, and all at once it hits her how tired he looks. This trial is hard on him. Maybe that's why he doesn't want to meet with even  _more_ lawyers.

She sighs and does up the last few buttons of her coat. "Okay," she says. "That's fine." She picks up her purse, her coffee. "Can I ask you a favor?" she asks. He doesn't say yes or no, just regards her, his head tilted slightly back, until she does. "You haven't told anyone about this, have you?"

"Of course not," he says with a small scoff, understanding what she means. He picks up his tea for the first time and takes a sip.

"Good," says Robin. "I'm meeting Lily tomorrow, and…" she doesn't need to explain herself to him, she reminds herself. "Let's just keep this between us, okay?"

"Trust me," Barney says with a cold little laugh, "I'm not exactly jumping at the chance to tell our friends we're not technically divorced yet either." Something inside her twists, but it doesn't hurt. It doesn't. "They'd just try to get us back together," he adds, sounding annoyed, looking down at his tea.

"Yeah," she says, the twisting feeling settling into bitterness, anger. He glances up at her, and she clears her throat. "So, uh, have your lawyers call me to set up an appointment," she says, "and I'll find a lawyer to take care of the other stuff."

"Sure," he says, his expression closed. "Thanks."

"No problem," Robin says, and, feeling twisted and awkward and anxious, but also like this meeting went pretty well, for what it was, even if he's being a weird, sardonic ass; even if she wants to vomit a little, even if her heart is pounding in her chest. "I mean, I want to get divorced just as badly as you do," she says with a scoff of her own, trying to match him for cool apathy.

"Yeah, I seriously doubt that," he mutters, and it only hurts because — because there was a time, only six months ago, there was a time, for years, there was a time — there was a time where she'd really, actually been stupid enough to think they were going to last forever.

She doesn't know how she could have gotten it so wrong.

"Right," she says. "I'll be in touch," she says, and leaves before he can see her swallow thickly, before he can notice her hurt, and she doesn't look back behind her, and she doesn't see him watching her through the window as she hurries towards the subway.


	3. the shutdown pair

Robin wakes up tangled in her hotel room sheets, the comforter kicked half off the bed. It's abrupt: no slow drifting into consciousness, no sleepy stretching, rolling over for another minute's rest. Aside from the soft hum of the under-window heater, and her cell's ringtone, the room is silent: on the fourteenth floor, with the thick windows shut, there isn't much ambient noise from the city.

She has a feeling she was having some kind of dream, but Robin's always been terrible at remembering them. Her phone is ringing. She rolls over, reaches clumsily for the nightstand: unknown 212 caller. It's eight thirty. Robin touches the screen to take the call. "Hello?"

"Is this Robin Scherbatsky?"

"It is," she says, sitting up, trying not to rustle the bedding, make it obvious she was in bed. "May I ask who is calling?" She swings her feet to the floor, her toes sinking into the thin carpeting. Heads towards the window and draws the blinds. Hundreds of windows reflect the morning sun.

"Agent Frank Ross," he replies. He gives it a polite beat before adding: "Mr Stinson may have mentioned me."

"Sure," Robin says, exhaling. "I mean, of course." Barney hadn't been kidding about getting in touch with his lawyers, that's her first thought. He'd been Barney's handler in the AltruCell work, the agent in charge of the case, and it stands to reason he'd remain involved with the trial. But Robin's never met him; never spoken to him before now.

"Mr Stinson informed us that you'd be willing to meet for a brief interview. I'm aware that you will not be in the city for long," that stings, the image of Barney calling up his FBI pal, telling him Robin will be cutting and running, as usual, "and so the sooner we could arrange for your testimony, the better."

"When you say 'testimony'…" Robin asks, trailing off.

"Nothing too extreme," Agent Ross says. "Have you ever testified in court before?"

"No," Robin says, still looking out the window. Her hotel is in midtown; her window faces north. Faces home. What had been home; now the city feels strange and unfamiliar.

"We wouldn't send you to make a statement unprepared," Ross says. "We'd meet first, informally, to establish the facts, ask you a few basic questions, ensure you know and are comfortable with your statement. Then we would create and submit your official statement, which would of course be shared with the defense as evidence."

"Do I have to testify in front of a jury or anything like that?"

"No," Ross says. "No, definitely not." Rather than reassuring, there's an edge to his voice, even over the phone, that Robin isn't sure what to make of. "Mr Stinson has made it clear that you were uninvolved, and we have no interest in involving you unduly."

"If you believe Barney," she says, "why do you need me at all?" The sting again, the sting: Ross and Barney, meeting, talking about her. The gang meeting and talking about her.

"I'd prefer not to speak of this over the phone," he says. What does that mean? Did Barney say something to him? Imply something? Ross hesitates, then continues: "This is a simple evidentiary matter."

He doesn't want to tell her, she realizes, but she isn't sure what that means. But Robin's already told Barney she'd do this, so she steadies herself. "I'm on leave from work right now, so whenever is convenient for you."

"How about today?" Ross asks.

"I'm meeting a friend for coffee this afternoon," Robin says. And she was planning on finding a divorce lawyer, she doesn't mention.

"We're due in court this afternoon," Ross says. She wonders who  _we_ is. She knows who. "However, if you have any time this morning — the preliminary meeting shouldn't take long."

"Sure," she says.

Agent Ross gives her the address, not of New York's FBI headquarters, but of a law firm downtown. They agree to meet at ten, and say their goodbyes. Ross hangs up first. Robin stands where she is for a minute, looking out at the backs of buildings, into offices and apartments where curtains haven't been hung. She didn't think to ask if Barney would be at this meeting, too.

She has some time, but not a lot, so Robin showers and dresses. Living out of her luggage, she doesn't have a lot of variety in her clothes: slacks, blouses, narrow skirts; her hockey jersey, a couple pairs of jeans. She does travel with one or two more professional options, and puts on a short sleeved black dress, a pair of black pumps, and she's debating perfume, laying out her makeup, when Robin is suddenly intensely aware that the dress is Prada, that her lipstick is red, and that she's about two steps away from busting out a NERF football.

What is she  _doing_? Robin strips off the dress and puts on jeans and a collarless blouse, fixes her makeup and slides the pumps back on. Getting dressed and redressed has cut her time dangerously short, and she hurries out of the hotel — grabbing some weak coffee from the lobby on her way out — and down the steps of the nearest subway. Her MetroCard still has some money on it, saving her the hassle of wrestling with one of the machines, and she shoves her way onto the 2 train minutes later.

She ends up pressed against the door, watching her reflection in the glass, checking for any hesitation or doubt. Her hair is a little messy, and she tries to smooth it with one hand, her elbow nearly crashing into another woman, who shoots her an angry look.

She gives up. She's fine. It's all fine. She looks fine, and this is no big deal. She's just going to meet the FBI and talk to them about her ex-husband, who might be there, and whatever she says will then be a matter of public record. No big. And Barney already saw her last night, wearing jeans, hair in a ponytail, just off the plane, so really, whatever she looks like today is completely irrelevant.

Robin gets off the subway at Wall Street and walks the few blocks to the firm Agent Ross had given her: she'd looked up the address on her phone to double-check, and something in her still clenches at the address: 76 Beaver Street. Barney must have thought it was hilarious, a law firm on Beaver Street — but there's no way he could have had a say in it, right? She's overcome with that urge, again, to text him:  _beaver street, really_? But she remembers him looking out the window, totally disinterested, and once again ignores the urge.

The building itself is small, on the corner, a cafe on the bottom floor: Robin heads inside and up to the 11th floor. There only seems to be one office: the elevator opens onto a tiny hallway leading to a glass door with etching reading  _Flores & Monroe_. Robin lets herself in, finding herself in a small waiting room, littered with leafy tropical plants. Either Flores or Monroe must be a fan. There's a reception desk, although deserted, and she loiters for a moment, unsure of what to do. A large-ish aquarium is on a table behind the desk, filled with tiny, silvery fish, and the water filter and the leafy plants combine to give the waiting room a sort of tropical feeling. Robin watches the fish listlessly.

A door at the back of the room opens after a moment, and a man with a short beard stands in the doorway. "Ms Scherbatsky?" he asks.

She turns to face him. "Yes?" Runs her hands over the thighs of her jeans.

"Thank you for coming in," says the man, coming forward to shake her hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

She recognises his voice. "Agent Ross?"

"Correct," Ross says with a little smile. When Barney would mention him, she'd invariably pictured some beefcake agent, six feet with a gun and action-movie stance. In person, Frank Ross is Robin's height — not short, but not tall, either — and a tad overweight, with a tidily trimmed beard and mustache. He's older than Robin had imagined — probably his late fifties — and has kind eyes. He looks more like someone's retired father than an FBI agent.

"It's nice to meet you too," Robin says. He's not what she expected at all.

"Come on in, let's have a seat. Would you like a coffee?" Ross asks, opening the door more widely for her and leading her down a short hallway. They pass glass-doored offices and end up in a small conference room, more leafy plants piled in corners. An empty dry erase board is hung on one wall; the opposite has a floor to ceiling photograph of the Amazon rain forest. Two women sit at the oval table; both stand to greet Robin and shake her hand. There's no sign of Barney.

"Miriam Marini," says the elder of the two women: in her early fifties, Robin guesses, her short, dark hair streaked with grey in a way that's somehow kind of sharp looking. Her eyes are grey, too, and sharp. "I'm one of the federal prosecutors on the AltruCell case."

"Miriam is the lead on the Fisher trial," Ross adds, sitting at the table.

"And I'm Paula Flores," the other woman says, shaking Robin's hand. She's probably about Robin's age, with a bronze complexion and honey blonde hair. The Flores of Monroe & Flores, Robin decides. She wonders if she's the tropical nut. "I'm the publicist these guys," she nods at Ross and Marini, "hired to help out."

Until this moment, Robin had thought this was a law firm, but it makes quick sense that Barney's legal team would have gotten publicists involved, considering the turn this case is slowly taking. Only yesterday, Barney was on the cover of the  _New York Post_. Ross indicates that she should sit down, and she pulls out the nearest chair. She ends up sitting beside Flores, the Federal agent and attorney opposite them.

"Good to meet you all," Robin says, forcing herself to smile. "I'm Robin Scherbatsky, but I guess you knew that already."

"We did," Flores says with a broad smile. Robin isn't completely sure what to make of that. Her best bet is to handle this like a business meeting. It  _is_ a business meeting. She lays her hands in her lap.

"Shall we get right to it?" Ross asks mildly, looking down at some papers. "Miriam?"

"Of course," says Marini. She looks across the table at Robin, and raises an eyebrow in a silent question. Robin nods and tries to think back, dates and times, collect all the scattered tidbits Barney had dropped about his job before the big reveal. Marini is readying a digital recorder of some kind, and gives Robin another quick look before she begins the interview. Flores is still smiling broadly; Ross holds a pen loosely in his hand.

"Ready?" Marini asks.

"You bet," Robin says, taking a deep breath and banishing those thoughts for the millionth time.

"Okay. This is an informal discussion, so don't get too tense. I'm just recording this for our records; the tape won't leave the room. What we're going to try and establish is your relationship with Mr Stinson, and what, if anything, you knew of his job over the past fifteen years."

"I've only known Barney for eleven years," Robin corrects. It feels weird, to call him by his first name when his legal team is calling him by his last. She wonders if they do that when he's here, or if she ought to start calling him  _Stinson_ as well.

"You met in 2005?"

"Yes," she says. She remembers one time back then: Lily had invited her and Barney to career day at her kindergarten class. Lily had ribbed Barney about it —  _you agreed, so you_ have  _to tell me your job, or I'm telling the kids you're the dinosaur_ — and Barney had given his typical non-answer and spent his time with the kids performing magic tricks. Robin had been new to the gang. She'd thought he was the biggest kiss-ass on the planet. (She hadn't been wrong.)

"And did he ever give any indication of his activities on behalf of the FBI?" Marini asks. "Anything at all."

"No," Robin says, trying to clear away the memories, just concentrate on the answers. "We all used to question it sometimes, I think he… Barney… kind of liked it when we did?" He'd smirk and say  _please_ , to the point it almost felt like a running joke. To the point that the gang was split, even money: either he was an accountant or something boring and was just trying to seem mysterious, or he was up to something pretty shady he couldn't talk about for legal reasons. She explains as much to the team; the way Barney would sometimes drop hints, make his career out to be shady and dangerous, but that he was always doing things like that: lying, spinning the truth, making his life seem far more dramatic and exciting than it probably was.

But then again, here she is being interviewed by the FBI.

The questions continue on: did Mr Stinson ever confirm or deny…? Were there any occasions where…? They're impersonal, but every question sends her into an anxious tailspin of memories: Barney, afraid of losing his job over the Arcadian, his hand warm in hers at the hearing. Lily telling her and Ted about her stint as Barney's roommate;  _I don't know how he affords that stuff_ , and some cheerful gossiping about his TV and career. Visiting him at work to get lunch, to hang out, to have sex on the sofa — "And when did you discover the truth?" Marini asks after fifteen, twenty minutes of this, hours of this, memories that no longer matter, memories that are long gone.

Robin steadies herself. Her hands are clenched in her lap. Ross is taking slow notes. "Three years ago," she says. The night before their wedding, she doesn't say.

She and Ted had gotten Barney so drunk he started spewing out the truth, and how they'd mostly wasted the chance on silly, petty truths. She remembers a couple of weeks later — just after the honeymoon — Barney sitting her down, serious, ready to tell her everything about his job, unable to remember that he'd already said. She'd been worried for a moment he'd be upset; instead, he'd been thrilled that she (and Ted) had been so diabolical as to pull one over on him like that. (She hadn't had the heart to tell him it was mostly an accident.)

She remembers talking to him yesterday.  _Yeah, I seriously doubt that_. All those memories, all those moments, turn to ash in her mouth.  _Yeah_ , he said coldly.  _I can't wait to cut you out of my life forever_. Nothing; it all amounted to nothing. All those years and memories are nothing. The day of the wedding, she'd doubted everything, been afraid of everything. Maybe it was a sign.

"He was drunk, and mentioned it in passing," she says, none of the other things.

"That was the day before your wedding, correct?" Marini asks. It's like a punch to her heart, like her mind is being read. Robin nods stiffly, reminding herself that of course they know these things, they're part of Barney's legal team, he's been telling them god-knows-what for months.

Marini watches her. "I understand that you and Mr Stinson are going through a divorce?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Robin asks, her face growing hot.

Flores coughs discreetly. "Simply that we understand this must be a difficult situation for you, and we're exceptionally grateful for your cooperation."

"It was a mutual decision," Robin says, struggling to keep her voice calm, neutral, reporterly. "We just didn't work. It isn't like I hate him and want him to go to prison." She doesn't like the way the women are looking at her.

Agent Ross casually glances up for the first time in a while. "I can assure you, Mr Stinson is in no danger of going to prison," he says.

She's confused. "I thought the trial wasn't going well?"

Marini looks uncomfortable, but Ross holds his hand up to her before she can speak. "Mr Stinson has full immunity," he explains, "which is a formality, as, in the eyes of the United States government, he has devoted eighteen years of his life in service to this great nation. Legally speaking, unless something drastic happens," and he smiles gently, as if to show what a ridiculous idea that is, "Mr Stinson is in absolutely no danger."

"The problem is," Marini says brusquely, "that Greg Fisher's team has figured out that the best way to win the case is by dragging Mr Stinson's name through the mud. I'm sure you've seen the papers?" She gives Robin a look that Robin can't read. "If they can make Mr Stinson seem less than credible by destroying his reputation, they win the case, and if Fisher gets off, it in turn weakens the AltruCell case."

Make him out to be a revenge-obsessed idiot. Which is he. Was. Her throat feels tight; she doesn't know why. "Don't you have evidence?" Robin asks tersely.

Ross and Marini share a look. "Of course we do," says Marini. Robin waits — this seems like the sort of statement that requires elaboration — but no further explanation arrives.

"However, we have no intention of losing," Ross says with a dry chuckle.

"That's it?" Robin asks impatiently, after a silence she isn't at all imagining to be awkward. "'Barney's reputation is getting trashed, but we'll win?'" His appearance is everything to him, she knows. Not just physical — how many years have they listened to his lies and stories? His attempts to make himself look good?  _LIAR LIAR_ , the  _Post_ 's headline blared.

"Have some faith in the US government," Ross suggests, smiling warmly across the table at Robin. She isn't sure what to make of that non-answer: they're clearly avoiding talking about it, but she doesn't know why. Unless Barney told them something — maybe that's why they questioned the divorce? Anxiety bubbles in her stomach.

"With that said, we should probably wrap up for today," Marini says with a glance at her watch. "The hearing starts in a couple of hours, and I'd like to review the questions with Stinson beforehand." No longer talking to Robin, she drops the  _mister_ , and Ross nods, flips his notebook shut.

"Sounds good," Agent Ross says, standing up. Flores packs up her things, and strikes up a conversation with Marini about a quick lunch. Robin, in the space of three seconds, has been rendered completely invisible. She stands, too, and Ross approaches her, offering his hand to shake once more. "Thanks so much for coming in," Ross says. "You've been a big help."

"That's it?" Robin asks dumbly, feeling irritation well up.

"That's it," Ross confirms. "We can schedule a time for your formal statement now, if you'd like, or we can get in touch in a day or two."

"So it's just — thanks for your life story, see you? What about the trial?" Robin asks. Barney, she thinks.

"With all due respect," Ross says, "we would prefer not to discuss that with you."

 _We_. It's like a slap in the face. She feels her nostrils flare. "Why not?"

"Because you're Mr Stinson's  _ex_ wife, and a member of the press besides." Ross says calmly, looking at her, and if she, until now, had thought he looked like someone's kindly uncle, she now remembers that he's a member of the FBI, the lead on one of the biggest corporate cases of the last fifty years. There's nothing warm in his expression. She sees the picture on the front page of the  _Post_ again, Barney glancing backwards, his expression taut and weary.

It's like a punch to the gut. Her face grows hot. "I would  _never_ — I have journalistic integrity!" she snaps.

"So Barney has said," Ross replies. The use of his first name almost throws her. "I'd hate for him to be wrong. You've been a great help today," he says. It feels as though she was just threatened, and she clenches her mouth shut, shoulders raised, cheeks burning. "Thank you so much."

Be polite, Robin tells herself. Be polite. Be polite. "Thank you," she says stiffly, shakes his hand, and leaves with as much dignity as she can muster. How dare he! She's not — she doesn't work for the  _Post_! She wouldn't — even as Barney's ex, she wouldn't leak trial information, smear him through the mud, whatever… whatever they think she's going to do. Whatever  _Barney_ thinks. He must have been the one — she remembers him last night, staring out the window, refusing to talk to her. As a  _member of the press_.

Robin stabs at the elevator button, and then two more times for good measure. Her face is still hot with humiliation, with queasy nerves. She never would have agreed to — she did all this to  _help_ him, genuinely wanting to help him, because she wanted to do the  _right thing_ by him — she stabs the 1st floor button inside the elevator, and then the door close button two or three more times — and it turns out he's just busy thinking of ways she could screw him over, like she's some kind of shitty person.

(She remembers the way he'd looked at her, in the hotel room, the last time, when she'd asked him. One look. Right then, she'd known it was over. That she wasn't enough for him.

She hadn't realized until now how little he'd thought of her.)

She's breathing heavily, and tries to pull herself together. The elevator doors open and close again before she's feeling confident in her ability to walk, to breathe: she presses the door open button (once) and the doors slide back open. She feels shaky and light headed with anger and hurt, and brushes her hands over her cheeks, pushing her hair back past her ears, trying to think of something,  _anything_ else.

Instead, she finds Barney crossing the lobby.

Her heart stops, and Robin has the almost overwhelming urge to dive behind some object, under some table, to stop him from spotting her. Her face must still be flushed, her eyes feel wide and panicked. There's a hearing in a couple of hours. Marini wants to go over things with him beforehand. She's such a goddamn idiot. Of course he's here: he probably can't wait to gossip with his buddies about how untrustworthy she is.

He stops when he sees her. He's wearing that tie again, blue silk standing out against the black wool of his suit. He looks at her with a wary expression, and Robin looks down at the floor, at a painting on the wall to the side, at anything except for him. She waits for him to move on, but he doesn't.

"What?" she asks, unable to take the feeling of him looking at her anymore. She should just march right past him and out the door, but she can't move.

"Are you…" if he asks her if she's been crying, she's going to take her gun out of her purse and shoot him. "done with your statement?" he finishes, and she isn't surprised he wasn't asking if she was okay, and so it doesn't make her feel worse at all.

She's sick of feeling like this. She's  _done_ feeling like this. She's Robin Scherbatsky; she  _doesn't_ feel like this. She raises her shoulders and looks back at him. His expression is tight, wary. "Yeah; and you're welcome," she says coldly. "Next time you ask me a favor, try not to ambush me like that."

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asks, annoyed. Good for him. Her too.

"And that's  _if_ I ever —  _ever_ — do you a favor again," Robin adds, letting it overtake her, letting it fill her and make her feel something besides hurt. "Which after today? Not likely!" He works his jaw and doesn't reply, so she continues, building up steam. "I thought we could handle this whole thing like  _adults_ , like  _friends_ , but clearly —"

He's still moving his jaw; he interrupts her, the words bursting out in an angry rush: "Like  _friends_? Are you kidding?" He turns on his feet, paces to the left, to the right. Spreads his arms, turns back to her and points. It's the most movement, the most emotion, she's seen from him so far. His voice is cold, angry, sardonic. "We're not  _friends_!" That's pretty obvious, but it still hurts to hear. "Robin, we haven't been  _friends_ since —"

"Argentina?" she interrupts, unable to handle — this, him telling her, him  _saying_ it like she doesn't know.

His arms fall to his sides. "Longer than that," he says. She can't look at him anymore. She looks at his feet. He moves, turns away.

"So what the hell happened up there?" he asks finally, his voice rough.

"What do you care?" she can't help but retort, childish as it may be. She summons her nerve and looks back up at him; he's glaring at a landscape on the wall. She watches him take a deep breath.

" _Well_ , it's my case and my guys, so it kinda affects me," he says with grit teeth.

" _My_ journalistic integrity," she bites.

He snorts humorlessly. "What are you talking about?"

"You told your  _guys_ I wouldn't help you, because as a  _member of the press_ , I'm just itching for a scoop!" Robin snaps, feeling color come to her face again.

He doesn't deny it: he stays silent, staring at the landscape. It's a Mediterranean villa, vineyards and the ocean in the distance.

"Forget it," she says. She moves towards him with the intention of blowing past him and out the door. He takes a big step out of her way when he sees her approaching, and she has the urge to slap him in his face when he does.

"I didn't say that," he says to her back. "I'd never say that."

She doesn't let herself believe him. "Whatever," Robin snaps. "Nice tie." She recognizes it now. He'd wanted to wear it at their wedding.

"Yeah," Barney says as she walks towards the door, "Paula says I need to wear more color. She says I dress like a corporate asshole."

For just a second, he sounds so much like himself — his  _real_ self, full of himself and wry and incapable of taking things too seriously — that Robin is distracted; turns back towards him. But he's already walking towards the elevator, his shoes clicking against the marble floor.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She's still flustered a couple hours later. Calmer, less shaky, but she keeps thinking back to it, bits and pieces — Agent Ross, Marini, Barney — flashing into her head at odd moments. The way Barney looked at her, wouldn't look at her.  _We're not friends_. All of it.

It's dangerous to see Lily like this, so Robin stalls as long as she can before heading over to their apartment. She gets a tight, sad feeling of nostalgia once MacLaren's comes into view; when she climbs the steps to the apartment, when she walks down the hall. This was her home; her entire world; for so long. She knocks on the door and takes one more steadying breath, just in case, before Lily can come to open it, which she does a few seconds later.

"Sweetie!" Lily cries, immediately pulling her into a hug — an awkward one, due to Lily's extremely visible pregnancy.

"Holy crap, you're huge!" Robin yelps in reply, gaping down at Lily's stomach. She'd known, vaguely, that Lily was pregnant — Lily had announced it around the same time that she and Barney, well — but Lily hadn't been showing when she'd left town, and she hadn't really mentioned it much, on the phone or Skyping.

It only occurs to Robin now to wonder why: Lily looks about ready to pop.

"Ugh, I know," Lily grumbles, patting her stomach and shaking her head in abject misery. "I already told Marshall, I'm done. No more enormous Eriksen babies. Three is my limit."

"Better you than me," Robin says. She isn't thinking about the implications until Lily turns back to her with wide eyes. She doesn't think about it much, the stuff from last year. She doesn't let herself think about it. It happened, it's over, she's moved on. For the first time, she wonders if there's a reason Lily has kept her own pregnancy quiet around her. "Ha," Robin says weakly. "I kid. Where  _are_  the kids?"

"Dad took them to the zoo for the afternoon," Lily says, leading them to the couch.

"That's nice of him."

"Well, I mean, I  _paid_ ," Lily says, rolling her eyes, and Robin laughs. Lily sits down on the sofa with an  _oof_ and then waves vaguely towards the kitchen. "Yeah, there's no way I can stand back up and get the coffee," she says.

"I've got it," Robin says, standing back up. Lily had already started the pot and a kettle, so all she has to do is pour and add cream and sugar, and fetch some tea for Lily. ("yet another reason I'm never doing this again.") They fall into an easy conversation as she does, catching up on life — Robin tells Lily about Mexico; Lily catches her up on gossip. Stuart and Claudia are back together; money is on them lasting six months, more if Claudia really is pregnant. Brad and Marshall had brunch the other day; money is on  _them_ lasting two weeks. Lily just hit the eight month mark and is counting the days until the baby is born; since she and Marshall already have a boy and a girl, they decided not to find out this one's gender. Unsurprisingly, there's a betting pool: Robin puts down ten bucks for boy.

Once or twice, Robin catches Lily almost mentioning Barney, but each time, one or both of them change the subject. It's easier this way. Out of sight, out of mind; just like the stuff from last year. But even as they gossip about the Captain and Becky, her mind keeps sliding back to it. To him. His footsteps clicking on the floor.

 _I would never_. Part of her  _wants_ to tell Lily — but she knows that if she does, Lily will never  _stop_ talking about it, about her and Barney, and that sends her into a whole new house of echoes.  _He's not doing well. He's really not doing well._

Robin still isn't sure what that means. Both times she's met him, he's been fine. More smug than usual, really. She doesn't ask.

A couple of hours of chatting later, Marshall arrives home. "Hey, Robin!" he says warmly, spotting her on the couch.

"Hey, baby, how was court?" Lily asks, stretching out her arms for her husband. They kiss, and Marshall settles himself down on the sofa next to Lily, reaching for a cookie on the coffee table.

"It was okay," Marshall says with a sigh. He gives Robin a strange look over Lily's head. "You-know-who is, uh, stressed out."

Robin frowns.

"Did something happen?" Lily asks. She turns back towards Robin before Marshall can answer. "You-know-who is Barney," she explains, and raises her eyebrows like she's daring her to say something. Robin takes a sip of her cold coffee.

"They're still trying to damage control yesterday's paper," Marshall says. He keeps looking over at Robin guiltily; his eyes big and apologetic. It's kind of annoying.

"You're one of Barney's lawyers?" she asks.

"No," Marshall says, glancing between her and his wife. "We just kind of take turns going to court?" He smiles nervously. "Every day Barney has to be in court, which is pretty much every day, one of us goes with him. Ted made us a chart." he gestures behind Robin, and she spots a repurposed calendar hanging up next to the kitchen window. The top half is a garish kitten in a tree; the bottom part is a mess of colors covering the squares for days. "I'm red, Ted is blue, Tracy is yellow, and Lily is purple," Marshall explains. This current week seems to be all red and blue. There are hardly any yellow squares, and Lily seems to be regulated to Mondays.

Robin looks back towards Marshall and Lily. Lily stares at her unflinchingly, clearly waiting for Robin to do something; Marshall, sensing the tension, looks from one woman to the other and back, then clears his throat. "We can add you if you want!" he says too loudly. "You can be green; you can take some of mine and Tracy's days."

She loses her staring contest with Lily. "I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be a lot of  _support_ for Barney," she says bitterly.  _Member of the press_ , she thinks.

"That doesn't matter," Lily says, jumping on the chance to discuss her and Barney, Robin thinks with a surge of annoyance.

"It doesn't matter? You need to watch out for your pregnancy brain," Robin scoffs, holding her mug tightly in both hands.

"We're  _family_ , and that means —"

"No, we're  _not_  family!" Robin interrupts. "Barney and I stopped being —"  _family._ Some other category, special category, standing in from of the alter, in front of their friends and loved ones, promising to be together, to stay together, to love one another in a way that never breaks — She can't form her mouth around the word. "We're nothing. We're not even friends." Lily opens her mouth, and Robin, angry, brandishes her mug. "No, stop! Don't even, okay? We're over! I talked to him this morning, and we're  _done_! You need to get your head out of your ass and get over yourself!" It all comes pouring out: all the frustrations, Lily's  _looks_ , her comments, the way Barney won't even  _look_ at her, the way he'd looked at her in the hotel, the way they'd stood at the fucking  _altar_ and he'd promised to love her forever and lied to her goddamn face. "You  _always_ do this — always mess with people's lives no matter how much they tell you to  _cut it out_. And that's what I'm telling you! You're so freaking delusional! Barney and I are  _done_."

"Ladies, you're both looking beautiful today," Marshall says in a desperate attempt at changing the subject.

Lily's visibly keeping her retort in, her jaw clenched, the cords in her neck standing out, her eyes red and filled with tears. Robin keeps her mug raised, but Lily doesn't speak, even as tears start to spill down her cheeks. Fuck. Robin lowers her arm and look away. Fuck, fuck. She practically throws the mug onto the coffee table, and drops her head into her hands. Great. On top of everything else, everything else she fucking  _sucks_ at, she's making her best friend cry. Her  _pregnant_ best friend.

"Really beautiful," Marshall says weakly. Lily gives out a big, wet sniff, and Robin glances up to see her enveloped in Marshall's arms. They've been a couple as long as she's known them, and she's used to it, but now it stings, now it hurts, and she presses her palms into her eyeballs until flowers of color bloom in the black.

She needs to say something to Lily; needs to take it back, but it's hard, because it was mean and it was wrong but it feels  _right_ , it feels  _good_ , to take things out on someone that isn't herself. She sits there, Lily sniffles in her husband's arms, and Marshall is quiet for a long moment. Staying out of it, she thinks, until he clears his throat.

"You talked to Barney this morning?" he asks.

Did she say that? She honestly doesn't know. Everything hurts. She takes in a breath and it's shaky. "Yeah," she says. Why not. Why the hell not. "Sure." She wills herself to calm down. "He asked me to make a statement to his lawyers about his job."

"Is that why you're back in town?" Marshall asks gently.

She laughs, exhausted and humorless, because telling them she's back in town to get a divorce would be the worst thing she possibly  _could_ say. "No, that was just bad timing," she says. "It sucked."

"It was nice of you to do that for him," says Marshall. Robin snorts. Trust him to try to look on the bright side of things.

Lily snorts too.

Robin sits up again, dropping her hands from her eyes. She looks over to Lily and Marshall and sees Lily eyeing her. She takes a deep breath, braces herself. "Lil, I'm sorry," she says, wincing and closing her eyes. "I didn't mean to go off on you like that."

"I just want to  _help_  you," Lily says, and Robin bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself reacting to Lily's tone. Marshall shoots her a warning look over Lily's head.

"I don't want help," Robin says. She doesn't need help. She just needs — needs to move on with her life. "Okay? And I hate… I hate that we can't even talk without this!"

"You're —" Lily cuts herself off and takes a steadying breath. "Robin, I  _told_ you. You and Barney are  _both_ important people in our lives. I can't just pretend he's not when you're around. And I don't pretend  _you're_ not when  _he's_ around. I'm not going to pretend either one of you don't exist, but whenever I even  _mention_ one of you, you start yelling and Barney…" she and Marshall share a glance.

"What?" Robin asks coldly. "He starts yelling too?"

"He's been going through a lot lately," Marshall says.

"Well, you know what? So have I," she says tersely. "I just want to put it behind me, and, and talk to my best friend without it turning into a fight." She looks over at Lily, whose eyes are red and puffy. Sometimes she wishes she could be like that; knew how to cry like that.

"We all want that!" Lily says. "But I mean it, Robin! You can't just … refuse to deal with everything and start yelling."

"Well, you need to stop meddling," Robin says peevishly.

"That's reasonable," Marshall says, before either woman can start arguing again. "We can all meet in the middle on this, right, ladies? Less trying to fix stuff, less yelling, everyone is friends!"

She waits for Lily to say "Okay, fine," sniffling as she does.

"Sure," Robin says.

"Do you want to hug it out?" Marshall asks, but that's a step too far. He coughs. "Who wants a non-alcoholic drink?" He practically launches himself up from the sofa.

Robin tries to think of a way to chance the subject, but her head is buzzing, and Lily is clearly still unhappy with her. She's not pleased with Lily either, for that matter, but if they can just talk about something else, she can make it go away. "How're Ted and Tracy?" she asks.

"Do you want to stay for dinner?" Lily snaps.

"Wow, Mickey's sure been out with the kids for a while!" Robin tries again.

"I mean it," Lily says, tense. "You're always welcome."

"Maybe I should just go," says Robin, rubbing her knuckles against her forehead. Her shoulders ache from hunching over.

"You can't just run away whenever things get hard," Lily says quietly, so quietly that Robin isn't immediately sure she heard her right.

She's pretty sure this means that Lily has no intention of upholding Marshall's truce, but at this point, she isn't sure anymore what she can do. "I'll stay for dinner," Robin says, staring at her mug on the coffee table.

Marshall returns to the living room with three glasses of soda and starts talking loudly about next week's brunch date with Brad. Lily joins in the conversation, and Robin clutches her glass. Agent Ross's eyes, blue and sharp. Barney's shoes on the marble floor. Lily, grabbing and grabbing and not letting go.

Her black dress, discarded on her hotel room bed.

"Have you ever met Kara?" Lily asks, a peace offering, drawing her into the conversation.

Robin shakes her head and takes a sip of her cola. "No, I don't think so," she says, thinking:  _0-4, RJ. That's a bad streak you're running._ Lily and Marshall keep talking, and she drifts out of the conversation again.  _0-4, all SOL._ She has no idea how to turn it around.


	4. the lovely miss lowe

Robin calls a divorce lawyer the next day.

They meet in a bland, unassuming office. The lawyer keeps her questions professional and to the point. Robin describes her trust fund, her salary; Barney's salary, his legal problems. The lawyer knows him from the news, but doesn't indicate how she feels; whether she thinks Barney is a corrupt liar or a brave patriot. Robin doesn't wonder which one she thinks.

The lawyer agrees, cautiously, to represent them both, based on Robin's repeated assertions that they are completely amicable, that there will be no conflict, that the only reason for their split is because they fell out of love.

That maybe they were never in love in the first place. That maybe —

She's been so exhausted since she came back to New York; so emotionally drained. She should never have caught that connecting flight.

Robin shakes hands at the end of the meeting, goes back to her hotel room, and sleeps.

It's three in the afternoon.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Robin wakes up. She cranked the heat up last night, knowing she'd — as she has every night — kick her blankets off in her sleep, wake up with sheets tangled around her legs and a pillow at her elbow, just as she has every day for the past week and a half.

She's not sure what it is. She sleeps for hours and hours, but never well. Too long in the same bed, she supposes. She's getting restless.

Robin turns on WWN for company as she showers and dresses. Sandy Rivers and the woman they hired after Robin took her correspondent position are discussing, what else,  _The People v. Gregory Fisher._  Tomorrow is a preliminary hearing. The DA is expected to discuss Fisher's ties with weapons dealing in Armenia and North Sudan; the defense in turn is expected to pin all of these deals on one Barney Stinson. Robin puts on the Prada dress.

Barney was on the cover of the  _Post_ again a few days ago, after an hearing had put several  _hundred_ documents he'd been signer on into evidence, ranging from domestic takeovers to sanction-defying deals with North Korea. The  _Post_ , unsurprisingly, was now naming Barney a traitor to America and calling for his arrest. Sandy and  _Kim_  (Robin knows her vaguely. She goes by  _Kimmy_. C'mon.) are presenting a more positive view of Barney in their report, sticking mostly to the US Attorney's line about Barney the national hero.

Not that Robin cares.

She's noticed these past few days that WWN has been very careful to avoid mentioning that Barney had any connection whatsoever with their studios: that he'd dated or fake-dated or married any of their employees, come to any office Christmas parties, had sex in any of their studios.

That a couple of years ago, he'd stood at the same snack table as  _Kimmy_ , back when Kim was still a researcher. Robin had seen him talk to her, wink at her, and  _Kimmy_  had giggled like an idiot school girl in reply. She'd come over and told him it wasn't nice to lead on children since they're too dumb to know better, and he'd laughed and kissed her temple and later they'd had sex in her office.

Point was, WWN was clearly trying to keep their connections with the star witness on the down-low, and Robin respected them for it.

She'd been thinking of contacting them, actually: seeing if maybe there was any work she could pick up while she's stuck in New York. She's been putting it off. She's not sure why. It isn't like Robin's doing anything, besides lying around a hotel room and waiting for people to get in touch with her: Lily has invited her out for a few more tense coffees, and the divorce lawyer should be back in contact sometime thing week, but otherwise…?

'Otherwise' is putting on her Prada dress and good heels and double-checking her makeup before she leaves the hotel. Satisfied that with her appearance, dabbing on a touch of perfume, Robin clicks off the TV as she heads out the door.

Robin hails a cab, checks the name of the driver out of long habit, and spends the drive to the courthouse looking out her window. The day is overcast and misty, clouds draped heavily over the city, pedestrians going mostly without umbrellas but walking quickly, their shoulders hunched. Water beads on her window. She catches her reflection in the glass: she looks tired.

When they arrive at the courthouse, there's a small group of reporters huddled outside, sticking close to the pillars, holding coffee in both hands. Cameras have been lowered; people have crossed station lines to chit-chat: Robin's never worked the courthouse beat, but she knows what to expect. Whatever they've been assigned to cover isn't currently happening; they're all killing time. Ross had said there weren't any proceedings today. Why are they here? Of course Barney's case — Greg Fisher's case — isn't the only trial going on, but a thin finger of ice still fills her core.

Robin pays her driver and fixes her hair, buttons the top two buttons of her coat. In and out, she tells herself, climbing the steps.

"Hey! Robin!"

Dammit.

She turns in the direction of the press, forcing a smile on her face. One of the reporters peels off from the group: a broad shouldered man with dark red hair. She recognizes him immediately: Calvin Conners, a reporter on the political beat at WWN. His good looks and news-worthy name have made him something of a rising star at their station, and there's absolutely no way Robin can pretend she didn't see him.

Dammit! What's her station doing here, when she's trying to be sneaky?

Robin smiles more broadly and meets Calvin halfway, keenly aware that representatives from four other stations are watching. Calvin has gone to WWN Christmas Parties too. Robin remembers Sandy and Kim's pointedly neutral coverage of the trial, and hopes that Calvin is on the same page. "Hi, Cal!" she says, too brightly.

"Hey! I didn't know you were in town!" Cal says, grinning as he raises his cup of coffee to his lips.

"For about a week now," says Robin. "I'm using some of that vacation time I keep hearing they give us."

"Who vacations in New York? In October?" Cal asks, waving around them at the gray day, the puddles forming in indents on the steps.

"Oh, come on, autumn in New York is a  _thing_ ," Robin chuckles.

"Hey, I'm from Long Island," Cal says. "Give me the option of autumn in New York and autumn in Aruba? I'm on the beach in my shorts."

Cal played college football. Robin pictures it, catches herself, and bites the inside of her cheek.

Calvin is smiling at her. "So, what, you got bored of vacation and decided to take my beat?"

"Hah," says Robin, her voice suddenly higher than she'd like. "No!" She shakes her head and looks meaningfully behind Calvin, at the assembled scrum. "I have some business to take care of?" she says with emphasis.

Hoping that there's a reason WWN has yet to contact her about this case. That there's a reason Sandy and  _Kimmy_ are being so neutral, besides good journalistic practices and all that crap.

" _Ohh_ ," Calvin says, his eyes widening. "Gotcha." He winks at her. "I'll leave you to it." He says a quick goodbye and peels away to rejoin the other reporters. Robin watches him, biting her lip, feeling odd: he turns back once and smiles at her over his shoulder.

A cold, damp breeze brushes at her cheeks. She heads inside.

Robin's heels click and echo on the marble floors inside the courthouse. She goes through the metal detector, provides her ID, and is directed towards the office where she'll be meeting Marini to make her formal statement about her knowledge of her ex-husband's career: once this is done, she tells herself, she'll never have to think about it ever again.

After this, all that's left is the divorce, and then she'll be free and clear of New York — no, Barney — forever.

Marshall is waiting for her outside chambers, squeezed onto a wooden bench and texting someone — probably Lily — on his phone. He doesn't notice her approach, and Robin is struck, for a moment, with his appearance: back straight, hair parted, suit well-fitted and worn easily, and the image of how he looked when she first met him, his hair messy and uncertain how to tie a tie. That it's been ten years hits her in the space between her footsteps, the Marshall of the past and the Marshall of the present, neither looking or acting the same.

She sees it, and it somehow feels like a farewell. "Hey," Robin says loudly. Marshall looks up.

"Hey," he smiles, standing with a small groan.

"Thanks for agreeing to come with me for this," she says. "It was either you or Brad." Or her divorce attorney.

"Hey, no problem!" Marshall says. "Actually, you should have called me before your first meeting." He shrugs. "Never talk to the law without a lawyer, remember?"

She smiles through closed lips. "I didn't want to get anyone involved." With her, with Barney, with whatever still existed of her-and-Barney, with her talking and remembering and him walking away in the lobby…

"Come on," says Marshall, spreading his arms. "Why else did I go through four years of Columbia law if not to be you guys's lawyer for life?" She can't help but smile, and he grins back. "I mean, I can't really help much, because I'm part of the case too."

"Hey, I know," Robin says, feeling a little less heavy. "It means a lot anyway. And this probably isn't going to be a big deal."

"Yeah," says Marshall. He makes a little gesture, and they walk the short distance to chambers together. "I mean, _I_  had to talk to Marini for like six hours about GNB and AltruCell and stuff. I was telling Barney, he'd better get me a  _really_ great Christmas present this year — like a new dune buggy, or a lightsaber or something. Compared to…" he stops talking abruptly and shoots Robin a worried look. "Uh, your testimony shouldn't be too bad," he finishes awkwardly. "In comparison."

"I hope not," she says stonily.

Marshall puts a hand on her arm before they enter the room. "Uh, I should warn you, Barney's here," he says.

She should have known, but she has to take a calming breath anyway. "That's fine," she says. "Come on, I want to get this done."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Marshall asks, his hand warm on her wrist.

"I'm great," Robin lies, and pushes open the door. The office reminds her of some old boy's club — wood panelling, heavy furniture, books lining the walls, and thick carpets on the floor. The room is divided into two sections, a solid desk dominating one half, and a meeting area filling the rest: leather-backed chairs and an oak table strewn with papers. Marini and Agent Ross are talking to an older, paunchy man who must be the judge; Robin also recognizes a second man from WWN's coverage as Adam Nosek, one of Greg Fisher's lawyers.

Nosek is chatting cordially with Marini and Ross; it would probably be too much to expect that they're mortal enemies just because their clients are. Robin surveys the scene with a reporter's eye, dimly aware of Calvin outside, of the opportunity she has here no other reporter does.

 _Journalistic integrity_ , she thinks, a hot flash of anger filling her at the memory. And speaking of: Barney's sitting alone at one side of the table with his back to Robin and Marshall, his shoulders hunched and head bent, his hair brushing against the nape of his neck, the small bone at the top of his spine.

She's divested of her creepy staring by Marshall. "Hey, dude," he says, clapping a hand on Barney's shoulder, causing him to look up and twist his head around.

Instead of smiling back, Robin sees his eyes narrow in suspicion. "What are  _you_ doing here?" he asks. There's something off in his tone. Marshall gestures towards Robin, and her ex looks at her for the first time. He turns back around.

"Ms Scherbatsky," Agent Ross says, noticing her; she's taken and introduced to Nosek and Judge Harrison; everyone thanks her for coming in on short notice, and Marini briefs her on the proceedings. Robin will, as with the week before, be asked a few basic questions; her answers will be recorded; this is a mere formality, and it shouldn't take more than an hour. Robin smiles and nods and shakes hands with everyone. The whole time, she has half an ear on Barney and Marshall's conversation. Not that there is much of one: Marshall makes a few abortive stabs at chit-chat, but Barney gives one word answers. She chances a glance over: Marshall looking vaguely frustrated, Barney texting on his phone. She wonders who. He's not wearing a suit, she realizes after a minute, but a grey blazer, cut to  _look_ like a suit, but he isn't wearing a tie, either, and it's so odd that she tells herself her creepy staring is only because of that.

Nosek shakes her hand again, and Robin is forced to pay attention. "This might sound odd, coming from a lawyer for the defense, but I'm a big fan of your work," he says.

"Really?" Robin says. It  _is_ a little weird, but she can't pretend she isn't flattered. Wow, he must be a huge fan if he's making a point of telling her.

"Really," says Nosek. He has a little dimple on his right cheek when he smiles. "When I was in law school, I'd watch your show all the time. 'Come on, get up?'"

"'Come On Get Up New York?'" Robin repeats incredulously. Nosek nods. "I like you," Robin says, taken aback in the best possible way.

"Shouldn't we get started?" Barney calls from the table. Robin jumps a little bit, and feels her face flush. "I have way better things to do today than hang out with you guys." He nods at Marshall as he says it, which is weird. Marshall looks hurt, and gives Robin a strange look.

Nosek clears his throat.

They all settle around the table: Barney, the lawyers, and Agent Ross on one side, and her and Marshall on the other; Judge Harrison at the head. Marshall takes a moment to introduce himself — "Uh, I know I've also done one of these, but today I'm Robin… Ms Scherbatsky…'s lawyer, also." — and after a few explanatory statements, the testimony begins.

No one seems to be taking it too seriously, which is a relief: Nosek takes some notes, but Agent Ross sits back in his chair, his arms folded over his stomach. Marshall listens intently, and smiles at Robin every time he catches her looking, but never feels the need to jump in and lawyer anyone; the questions themselves are pretty much the same as the week before, but phrased more clearly. Most of the time, Robin can get away with a yes, no, or three word answer:  _No_ , she was never aware of Barney's job;  _yes_ , she did later find out,  _no_ , she was unaware that in the fall of 2010 that… Every question she answers, she can't help but look at Barney, but he never once looks up from his phone. His fingers don't move: she wonders if he's streaming a video.

He never reacts. Not when Robin states for the record that she discovered his undercover work on May 26th, 2013. Not when Robin says  _yes_ , it was the day of their wedding. Not once, not ever. It must be a great video.

It all goes by in a blur: her heart pounding, her head spinning, and when Marini announces they're done, she exhales a deep breath and realizes her fists are clenched so tightly in her lap that she's left little half-moon marks in her palm. She's dimly aware of Marshall asking Marini something and getting an answer; this is probably a conversation that she should be paying attention to, but her head is spinning and everything sounds far away, and he won't  _look_ at her, he  _still_ hasn't, and she doesn't know why this is pissing her off so much except that it does.

Robin lurches to her feet and shakes hands with everyone again. Ross tells her they'll be in touch if they need her. She can't even work up the emotions to be angry at him for the week before; everything feels far away. Nosek says goodbye to her, tells her it was nice meeting her. Marini tidies her papers and talks with Judge Harrison.

Barney stands up slowly. His fingers curl around the back of his chair.

"Hey, are you okay?" Marshall asks Robin, and she forces herself to look at him, tries and mostly fails to smile. The group starts to drift towards the doors and spill out into the hallway, the lawyers peeling ahead and Robin and Marshall walking slowly behind.

"Yeah, that was weirdly exhausting," she says. Marshall looks concerned, and she doesn't want him to, but it's nice to see someone knows she exists. "Hey, you want to grab a coffee?" Robin asks, before she can think to regret it.

"Ah…" Marshall hems, his gaze darting behind them. Barney is a few paces behind them, his eyes glued to his phone.

"Hey," Barney says coldly. "I don't need a babysitter."

"Dude," says Marshall, a little exasperated sounding in a way that means this is an old argument.

"No, seriously," Barney says. "I really,  _really_ don't need," he holds up a finger, " _or_ want, some loser — by which I mean you — following me around all day, getting underfoot. The only babysitter  _I'm_ interested in is the barely legal kind," he adds, tilting his head, raising his eyebrows, but where he'd normally put in a little leer, an  _aw yeah_ grin,  _what up_ , his tone remains flat, and, and why is he talking about picking up eighteen year olds, anyway? Robin runs her fingers over her palm, the nicks there.

Marshall takes a deep breath and lifts his eyes towards the ceiling. "Lil wants me to invite you to dinner," he says to Barney.

"Yeah, you can go ahead and add her to the list of 'bullshit I'm too awesome to deal with,'" Barney says. "Get the hint, okay? I'm over you guys." He looks at Robin for the first time all day; their eyes meet accidentally, and he looks away again. Her heart is pounding.

"B.T.W., Nosek is just trying to win you over to use you as a witness for the defense," he says blandly, looking back at his phone, pushing it into his pocket, and walking past Robin and Marshall. "Like anyone actually watched your crappy TV show."

Before Marshall can stop him, Barney stalks off towards the doors. Robin doesn't try to stop him; Robin takes a deep breath and then another, trying to calm her heart rate and the nausea filling her stomach, throat, and lungs. Marshall sighs heavily, but all Robin sees is Barney, passing through security, his face in profile — caught in the light from outside, lightening his hair, throwing his cheekbones and brow into contrast — and then around the corner; gone.

Marshall takes a second deep breath. "Robin, I'm really sorry about that," he says, and Robin tears herself away to look at him, his expression embarrassed and apologetic.

"Don't be," she manages. Clears her throat. "It's probably just stress, you know, because I'm here…"

"He's been like this since — since July," Marshall says, and sounds tired.

"It's Barney," she says, almost hesitates on the name, is glad her mouth obeys her. "He's always been a jackass." The math doesn't add up: they'd split up at the start of May. Or is she being crazy? Why should she assume any jackassery is about her? Clearly, she hadn't meant all that much to him; or…

They follow Barney's earlier path to the exit. After a few heavy seconds, Marshall says, "I'd love to get a coffee with you, but I have to call Lily first. She's going to be mad Barney escaped."

"You guys are really taking your chart seriously," Robin says. The rain has picked up a little while they've been inside; puddles are forming on the steps and sidewalks. She squints into it, trying to judge if they'll be okay without umbrellas.

Marshall chuckles, buttoning his suit. "Yeah, Barney hates it, too."

"So then why…" Robin trails off, realising she's having a conversation about Barney. It's easier with Marshall: she's pretty confident he won't try to meddle or set them back up. After a slight awkward pause, she continues as they walk down the steps: "If he hates it so much, why not just let it go?"

"Friends don't do that," Marshall says, shrugging. Robin feels that knot in her belly again. "Even if he's seriously a  _huge_ jackass lately. Then again, I guess that's not exactly new for Barney."

It stings, that's all. These reminders that the gang is rallying around him in a way they aren't with her. Marshall takes the lapse in conversation as a cue to phone Lily; Robin half-listens to him informing her of the afternoon, Barney's disappearing act, and his and Robin's current plans. She hails them a taxi, and as she walks around the cab to get in as Marshall climbs in on the other side, she sees Barney again.

She doesn't pause, but it seems to last an hour: Barney, at the bottom of the courthouse steps, blazer buttoned, talking to a woman, a blonde woman; he has his hands in his trouser pockets and leans his weight towards her, a gesture she knows well enough to know it's meant to be disarming, he's disarming her, he's talking to her, she can't see the blonde's face but she can see him smile, crooked, down at her.

Robin slides into the cab and shuts the door behind her.

Marshall gives his love to Lily and hangs up; she stares at the back of her seat. Marshall gives the driver an Upper West Side address, she stares at the back of her seat.

They're broken up. What does it matter? She was kidding herself if she thought… thought what? That he'd… never hit on a woman again? Keep it in his pants? He was just talking to her, she reminds herself, but she knows him, she  _knows_ how he gets, buttoning his jacket because he thinks it makes him look smooth; hands in his pockets,  _aww shucks,_ the crooked smile and the nervous boyish routine;  _I'm cute, I'm harmless, like me!_  How many times has she seen him pick someone up over the years?

"Is everything okay?" Marshall asks.

She's startled; blinks a couple of times to focus her vision. "Yeah," she says. "Everything's great. Just great."

She doesn't really want to talk anymore, but Marshall doesn't press it. "How are you guys doing, with the baby coming?" she asks, a hail Mary pass if she's ever made one. Thankfully, Marshall is happy to seize on the topic: Lily has a month to go, but Daisy was eight days early so who  _knows_ , really; they're probably going to have to move, soon; Marshall hopes it's a boy and likes the name Mark, Mark Theodore Eriksen, although Ted's been threatening to call him  _Marco_.

Robin does love her nieces and nephews, but this isn't a topic that she's terribly interested in. She lets Marshall's words flow over her, making little sounds of approval or disapproval when it seems like she needs to. She corrects herself, too, with a little jolt: she doesn't have nieces and  _nephews_. Eli and Sadie are Barney's, not hers.

He didn't look at her once, he looked at that blonde woman, he's over her, he's moving on —

So's she, obviously. They're done. What does she care if he's slutting it up? She could sleep with anyone she wanted, too. Anytime she wanted. The fact that she hasn't yet — she's just been busy.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. Maybe she  _does_ need to get laid, she thinks bitterly.

She and Marshall get coffees; the shop sells baked goods, too, and Robin picks at a scone. Their small-talk falters and dies, but she doesn't feel too awful about it; excuses herself with the reminder that she and Marshall have  _always_ sucked at small talk, and therefore, it has nothing to do with her mood. Marvin, Daisy, Lily's upcoming Halloween party, and autumn's falling temperature later, they pack up and say their goodbyes. Marshall invites Robin over for dinner ("since, you know, Barney ran off."); Robin demurs and promises to be in touch.

Human interaction and friendship accomplished.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's much later, watching the news in the dark of her hotel room, wanting to fall asleep, wanting a drink, wanting to not be the pathetic dumped woman who drinks alone in bed, that Robin realizes something.

In all the questioning Marini had done — how long has she known Barney, how long has she known his career, how long did he keep her in the dark — she'd never asked the most obvious one: what Robin's relationship with him was. How she knew Barney, when they married, when they split up. That Robin was his ex-wife. That they were divorced.

No: separated.

She frowns and feels weird about it, but there's an obvious explanation: lying on an official court record would be bad for all sorts of reasons, and could cause a lot of problems later on. Plus, Marshall was there, and Robin… both of them… had remained adamant that the gang wasn't to know about this. It didn't make a difference, after all.

New York divorce law stated a couple needed six months of separation before divorce could be filed. They hadn't seen the point in waiting it out, and Robin could just  _imagine_ the look in Lily's eyes if Lily had realized they were lying about their divorce. What was the harm? They announce it early; file in October — file now — and no one has to know. Barney must have informed his legal team, so that Marini would spare Robin from lying in her testimony. It makes sense.

Marini never asked about her and Barney's divorce, because Barney was still her husband.

It sends a jolt through her entire body, her heart missing a couple of beats. No, they're  _separated_ and  _divorcing_ , but her correction doesn't work, her brain keeps stuttering on the realization, the fact she's avoided connecting until now. He's still her husband. She's still married to him. She's still his wife.

 _He's sleeping around. We're not together. We'll never be together_ , she tells herself, but she feels sick and unhappy and guilty. She shuts off the TV, the hockey game she'd been watching suddenly too noisy and loud and  _much_ , and sits there in the dark, her head in her hands, her fingers pressing into her skull.

What difference does it make? No difference.

It isn't news. It's not a surprise. (But he's her  _husband_. Legally, they are married. As far as all the lawyers and judges in Barney's case are concerned, she's not his  _ex_ but his wife. His estranged wife.)

She's meeting with their divorce lawyer —  _divorce lawyer_ — again this week. None of this is a surprise.

Robin scrambles for her phone in the dim light from the windows, scrolls through the contacts, and presses  _call_.

Barney answers before she has the time to regret it.

He doesn't say hello; neither does she. She doesn't know what to say, for a long, long second, and her fingers feel numb and shaky, and she wonders why he hasn't hung up or said anything. Or why she hasn't.

"Hi," she forces out. She doesn't identify herself. She doesn't have to.

She hears him exhale a breath. "Why are you calling?"

_Because I'm having a panic attack, because I just realized we're married. I know, right? Bit slow on the uptake?_

_Because now you hate talking to me, you don't even look at me, and it makes me so mad, it makes me want to kill you._

"Were you wearing a blazer today?" she blurts out, because it's the only thing she can think of that isn't real.

" _No_ ," he says, unconvincingly.

"Seriously?"

He actually laughs, low and quiet in her ear, and she feels calmer for the first time all day.

Which is a coincidence.

He's silent for a moment. "Paula has this whole plan," he says at last. He sounds wary.

"To turn you into Ted?" she asks, her free hand rubbing anxiously back and forth over her knee.

She's rewarded with another chuckle. "Funny story," he says. "Paula wants me to start dressing like a pathetic schmuck, and I thought, 'who do I  _know_ …'"

"She didn't say pathetic schmuck."

"All-American boy-howdy with family values and a…  _backyard_ ," he says, disgust coloring his voice. Robin chuckles, and hears him take a shaky breath. She can read enough between the lines to guess Paula really just wants him to drop the smug corporate look to get the  _Post_ — and actual human beings — on his side; that seems like a losing battle if Robin's ever heard one.

But then again, he was wearing a blazer. She imagines the fit he must have thrown, how much he must have sulked. Maybe that's why he was in such a bad mood in court?

Just thinking of the courthouse is a splash of cold water: his little comments, the way he'd pushed away Marshall and Lily, the way he wouldn't look at her.

The woman on the steps.

What is he doing now? Where is he now? At th — his apartment? At hers? Is that why he's being less of an ass, because he just got laid, because he's single and can do what he wants, and what he wants is…

She falls silent.

"Why did you call?" he asks again, after a minute.

_Because I'm alone in a hotel room at two in the morning._

What is she doing?

"I, uh," she hedges, "Right. I met with a divorce lawyer."

He's doesn't reply.

"She seems nice?"  _Nice_. Good one, RJ. "But, um, she said she'd be in touch within the week. I gave her your number. But, um, don't get excited. She's not hot or anything," Robin jokes, even as she's screaming at herself for trying to lighten this with a joke, get him to reply, get him to  _look_ at her, to act like she exists,  _anything_. For bringing up the divorce lawyer in the first place; for  _calling_ him in the first place, for — a lot of things.

He's silent for a while.

"Cool," he says. "Thanks."

"Okay," she says.

 _Because you told your lawyers we weren't divorced yet, and that means they think we're still married. We_ are  _still married, and for some reason, I really want to know what you think about that_.

"…Goodnight," she says, sitting in the dark, in a bed, in a hotel, in the last place in the world she wants to be.

"Mm," he says, and hangs up.


	5. the story of a lifetime

**Manhattan, New York City.**

**Tuesday, October 18th, 2016.**

 

 

The day after Robin calls Barney, she wakes up past noon. It must be cause and effect: her weariness brought on by contact with her estranged husband… ex husband. In the light of day, she has no idea what she was thinking, calling him. Why she keeps thinking about him now.

Besides tell him about the divorce lawyer, that is. But even that justification seems pretty flimsy in the morning.

It's after she showers, as she brushes her teeth, that she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and realizes: she's a mess. She looks at herself, lit in florescent bathroom lights, her skin washed out, her hair stringy and flat. She's been sleeping ten, twelve hours a day and still looks exhausted. Her collar bone and shoulders are prominent. She's lost weight without realizing.

She looks terrible.

What is she doing?

Robin had intended on coming to the city for a week or two to take care of the divorce: it's  _been_ two weeks, and where is she? In her hotel room. Calling her ex up at weird hours of the night. Spending her days doing trying to help him. Why?

She looks into her own eyes in the mirror, the dark blue irises, her slightly clumpy lashes, the fine lines forming around her eyelids and in the corners.  _What are you doing_?

It has to stop. Look at her. She's a mess.

She takes a breath, so deep that it pinches in her lungs.

Then she gets dressed, calls a laundry service, and calls WWN. It's time to get back to work.

 

 

 

Only a few hours later, Robin is feeling much better. Her producer was thrilled that she wanted to return from her personal leave early, that she wanted to start working again immediately, and soon enough she was back in the WWN building, walking down familiar halls, nodding and greeting familiar faces. It felt  _right_ to be back, to be working again, to be  _doing_ something.

Robin is quickly given an empty office, bare but for a desk and computer. "Think you'll have something for us by seven tomorrow?" her producer teases.

"Please," she says, running her hand along the desk and looking out the window, getting used to her surroundings. It's not exactly her old office, but it'll do.

"Glad to have you back with us, Scherbatsky," he winks, and makes his exit.

It's not even four yet: she has fifteen hours to find and pitch a story. Compared to weeks in refugee camps or political upheavals, this is almost a vacation in itself. Robin sits at her desk and boots up her computer. Now that she's thinking of refugee camps — does she still have her contacts at Kakuma?

She quickly loses herself in research and phone calls, e-mails and inter-office messages, looking for a story, an angle, not thinking of anything but news and stories. There's a rhythm to it, ideas, angles, jotting down notes and names, can we contact  _x_ , do I know anyone for  _y_ , her notes blooming from a few random words to sentences and paragraphs. She has the ability to shine a spotlight on the world, show people things they don't like to address. In comparison to that, none of her own problems matter. All that matters is finding the truth, and sharing it with —

" _Robin_?"

The voice interrupting her researching is like a rusty nail driving between her shoulder blades, and Robin's concentration is immediately shattered. She glares up from her desk, and sure enough, it's exactly who she was afraid of.

Dammit.

"Robin!" Patrice squeals, holding a gigantic bouquet of flowers in her arms. "I heard you were back at work! This is so exciting! I'm so glad to see you again! I bought these for you, as a welcome home present!" The woman bounces into Robin's office, completely uninvited.

"I don't like irises, Patrice!" Robin snaps, shutting off her monitor with an angry stabbing motion.

Patrice's eyes go big and round. "I'm sorry! I'll pick them all out right away. I  _knew_ I should have bought you the lilies —" Dammit, she doesn't like those, either, but before Robin can point it out, Patrice lays down the bouquet on her desk — ugh — and bounces around to Robin's side to hug her. Robin hugs back with the hope it'll be over all the sooner. "I'm so glad you're back! I've been trying to mail you care packages to remind you of home, but it's been pretty hard to mail things to hotels! You're so good at your job, Robin!"

"Yeah, thanks, okay," Robin says, patting her on the back and trying to wiggle away.

Patrice stands back up, beaming down at her. "How are you doing? Are you back in New York for long? Any interesting stories? Ooh, we should go out for dinner! Have a girl's night out to catch up! Wouldn't that be super fun?"

"No, it wouldn't —" Robin starts to say, but Patrice is still going strong.

"I've missed you so much!" she exclaims, clapping her hands together. "Oooh, how's Barney doing?" Everything turns to ice. "Because I keep seeing him on the news, and I keep telling everyone, he's innocent, there's  _no way_ Barney would do those things everyone is saying! He must be really upset! I've been mailing cookies to your apartment, but you can go ahead and tell him I'm totally on his side!"

"Patrice, we broke up!" Robin snaps, louder than she's proud of, and is gratified when the woman's face falls. But Patrice's face doesn't just fall — she looks  _sad_ , actually sad, which is ridiculous, because if anyone should be on the verge of tears… it… would not be Robin, because she's fine.

"Are you okay?" Patrice asks, her eyes wide and wet.

"Mind your own business, Patrice!" Robin snaps, stabbing her computer monitor back on as she does.

"You must be really upset, what happened?" Patrice asks, sitting opposite the desk.

"I have a lot of work to do!" Robin yells.

"I'm here for you!" Patrice insists, sniffling.

Someone knocks on the ajar door. Both women look up and over; to her surprise, it's Calvin Conners. "Hey," he says, smiling. His expression sobers: "Patrice, you okay?"

Patrice nods her head, tears spilling down her cheeks, and Robin rolls her eyes. Honestly. She's so  _fake_. "Uh," Calvin continues, "I heard you were back at work, Robin," he says, giving Patrice a quick, worried frown. "Literally heard," he adds, gesturing over his shoulder. "You were getting pretty loud."

"Can I help you with something?" Robin asks through slightly grit teeth.

"Yeah, I wanted a word, actually. Can I interrupt?"

"Sure," Patrice says, sniffling, wiping at her eyes, and Robin feels a new stab of annoyance towards her. Calvin pats the woman's shoulder as she passes him out the door, and closes the door behind him. He sits in the chair she'd vacated, forearms on his thighs.

"The way she talks about you, I thought you two were best friends," Calvin says, breaking the silence.

"You know, she  _seems_ nice, but it's all fake," Robin scoffs. Calvin eyes the flowers meaningfully, she narrows her eyes at him. "What can I do for you?"

He doesn't beat around the bush. "I wanted to know if you'd be open to working on a story with me."

She thinks about it for a moment. Robin doesn't really know Calvin that well: he's considered something of a rising star around WWN, but they haven't worked together in the past. On the other hand, after six months out of the country, and almost a year as a foreign correspondent, her local contacts are languishing.

"Did you have something in mind?" she asks.

Calvin nods eagerly. "I want to do a big story on the Fisher trial."

It's like she's trapped in a whirlpool, and can't escape. She looks at him wordlessly, unable to articulate an answer, unable to say a single word,  _no, of course not, are you serious?_ Her stomach clenches up. Her lungs clench up. Everything goes tight.

Calvin blinks at her, his brows drawing together. "What's wrong? I thought you'd be all over this."

She grips the arm of her chair. "Why?" Robin grits out, taking a deep breath.

"Beeecause you're married to the fed's chief witness?" Calvin says slowly, and raises his eyebrows when Robin shakes her head  _no_.

"We're — separated," she says, a minute pause before the word. Calvin immediately looks interested, and she clarifies: "Divorced.  _Off_ the record."

"I wasn't going to put it on the record," he says, and she looks at him suspiciously across the desk.

"And even if we weren't, why would I get involved in a story like that?" Robin asks harshly.

Calvin's silent for a few seconds, regarding her. She wants to tell him to go, explain herself,  _something_ , but forces herself to wait for his answer. It's probably only a few seconds before he does, but it feels like it lasts forever. "I'm sure you've noticed, but the press is buying Fisher's legal defense, the whole 'I was framed by this sombitch' story. Stinson looks like shit. The state department's hired a great PR team for him, and they're keeping him totally under wraps. No comments, no interviews, nothing."

It's a roundabout answer, but Robin gets it. "So you thought I could get you an interview."

Calvin nods, leaning towards her. "This would be a  _big_ story. We're talking exclusive."

"So far WWN hasn't had much coverage of the trial," Robin points out. She neglects to mention that she's gotten this information from weeks of sitting in her hotel room watching TV.

Sure, there's the brief mentions of trial developments, but compared to Fox, MSNBC, and other major stations, WWN's coverage barely even exists. Given that it's such a big national story, ratings must be going to competitors.

"That won't last," Calvin says, giving Robin a significant look.

She doesn't get it, but feels a knot in her stomach all the same. "What do you mean?"

"Sooner or later, the news is going to break that you and Stinson are married. Separated, whatever. As soon as that happens, WWN is going to have to take a stand and denounce him and all connection to him — and you're one of those connections."

"They're not going to fire me because of Barney," she says coldly.

"No, but  _you'll_ be the exclusive story. This case is going to get personal, and it's only a matter of time." Calvin lets his words sit for a moment. "'Who is Barney Stinson?' Right now, all we have is Fisher's word, and honestly, he's not the most sympathetic figure. The public hate arrogant CEOs. He has three ex-wives and a private jet. People are going to start questioning his story, but with the feds keeping Stinson locked away in the fortress of solitude…"

"What did you say?" Robin says.

"Sorry. Superman thing," says Calvin, smiling. Robin can't smile back. "I loved those movies as a kid."

"They're uneven," she says under her breath, looking back down at the irises.

"Huh?" She shakes her head, and Calvin continues after a brief pause. "Well, okay, where was I? Fisher isn't a naturally sympathetic hero; Stinson isn't either, but he's also a mystery. Whoever cracks that nut has the story. If WWN can break it,  _prove_ Stinson is who Fisher says he is, then none of the trash the  _Post_ is printing matters anymore — we're the ones who proved it.  _I'm_ the one. I don't like working the courthouse beat. I want to tell  _real_ stories."

"And you want me to help with that?" Robin asks, her voice low with tension. Barney walking away from her, his shoes clicking against the marble floor. His tie bringing out his eyes. Agent Ross. "You want me to tell you all the gossip about my husband, tear him down for you?"

"I didn't even know you were divorcing until just now," Calvin points out.

It's true: Robin hadn't exactly made an announcement of it. She didn't know what to say, how to say it; it was hard enough to tell their friends. They'd played it down as best they could, made it seem like it wasn't a big deal. Because if it had been a big deal — if it had been big and serious and  _real_ — no; better to downplay it. Pretend it never happened, pretend they've never married, never divorced, he'd never proposed — in this very building — and it never meant anything. The last three years, the fights and sex and traveling and stress, the thing last summer, the good times, the bad times, that first, perfect year — none of those things meant anything. None of those things happened.

None of it was real.

But it is real. They have a divorce lawyer. He barely even looks at her anymore.

"We kept it quiet," Robin says, picking at the grain of the chair's arm. A million thoughts whirl around in her head. It's then that she realizes. "Wait. You wanted me to help you with a story slamming my  _husband_?" Who he thought was her husband, she mentally corrects. ( _He's still your husband_ , something else whispers.  _You're not divorced yet_.) "Because I don't know who you think I am, but I'm  _not_ that kind of journalist."

But to her surprise, he smirks at her. "Not at all." She looks at him as steadily as she can. "I want to go the opposite route. Break a  _new_ story. None of that tabloid crap: news at seven, 'Why He Did It,' the Stinson story." He gestures with his hand as if tracing a marquee. "Get his background, his history; hell, until just now, I thought we could even do a fluff piece on him and you; you know, a humanizing angle. Capitalize on your star power, throw WWN behind him… 'course, this will fail miserably if Fisher is acquitted, but until then? Completely fresh, completely new, guaranteed ratings. And you, Scherbatsky, can give us that."

Robin knows perfectly well how powerful the news can be, how strong public opinion can get, and the difference it makes in things like this. They could shift the story, turn Barney into a hero: highlight the work he's done, the loyalty he's shown, to his friends, to this mission; frame his lies as ones to protect. It wouldn't be too difficult. Put him in a studio, have him lay on the charm. Interview someone close to him, have them list the ways he's a good friend, a loyal friend, smart and funny and —

And, her ex. She feels cold. It would only be spin. He may seem like those things — he  _is_ those things — but he lied to her face and left her. He's funny and clever and charming, but he's cold and unfeeling and he left her, promised to love her forever and walked away.

He said they were fine. He said they were okay. Even then, in the hospital, when she  _needed_  him, he was lying.

"Are you okay?" Calvin asks, frowning slightly, and Robin realizes she's been silent for probably a little too long.

She swallows, her mouth dry. "I can't do that," she says. "We're not on good terms."

"Really?" he asks, frowning a little deeper.

"We're  _divorced_ ," Robin says, taking a deep breath.

"Which I didn't know," Calvin repeats. "And you were at court the other day with him."

"No, I…" she trails off. She isn't sure how to defend herself, here: yes, she was at court and so was he and the two were linked, but she wasn't  _with him_. Yes, he was  _there_ , but — he wouldn't even look at her. They didn't talk. And isn't that the problem? No: not that they didn't  _talk_ , because she doesn't want to talk to him, ever, ( _on the phone, in the middle of the night, his laugh in her ear_ ) but that she's doing him favours and, and getting involved in his  _life_ , problems he brought on himself, and she has no reason to.

She doesn't owe him anything.

She tries to steady herself. "I had some unresolved stuff to take care of," she says as levelly as she can, not really wanting to go into it, "but that's it. I have no interest in getting involved in it now, let alone writing a story about how great he is."

He regards her for a moment. "Okay," Calvin says. "If you don't want to get involved, I can respect that. But I'm still going to develop this story. I was serious, I want more than the courthouse beat, and this is the golden ticket."

She bites the inside of her cheek. "You said you needed my help."

"I wanted your help," he shrugs. "You'd be a great resource. But I have other leads. Do you know Nora Hebbar, in research? She dated him a few years ago, she's been telling everyone that —"

"Dammit, Nora!" Robin snaps, her core tightening, her blood suddenly hot. Telling Calvin, telling everyone, what? That Barney cheated on her? That he's a lying sociopath? That he can't be trusted, that he's terrible, all sorts of untrue things — well, no, they  _are_ true, but it's not — he's not — what's her problem! Perfect little Nora, gossiping about her ex? Where does she get off?

Calvin frowns at her outburst.

"Look, Nora seems sweet and perfect, with her shiny hair and cute nose and fancy accent," Robin says, struggling to suppress the wave of anger, "but she's actually…" she can't think of anything, "a rude gossip. You know who also pretended to date Barney?" she adds in a burst of inspiration. "Patrice. You should talk to Patrice!"

Calvin's frown now seems confused. "Nora's been saying that for all of Stinson's faults, she can't believe he's done the things Fisher's team is saying," he says slowly. "It's not exactly a ringing endorsement, but it's a start."

"Oh," Robin says, swallowing.  _Freaking Nora. Why is she always so perfect?_  "Well, that's nice," she says. The annoyance is fading, and she's suddenly aware of how ridiculous she must sound. "Good for her. I don't really care. But cool."

"Are you sure?" Calvin asks. She frowns at him, and he continues without prompting: "because you're sure as hell acting like you care."

"I just don't like Nora," she offers after too long a pause.

"I'm a reporter," he says. "And sorry, but you're lying your ass off."

She doesn't know what to say. She doesn't even really know what he means. "What are you talking about?"

"We've been talking for… what, ten minutes?" Calvin asks flatly. "You've avoided eye contact, gotten upset whenever I bring up Stinson, insist you  _don't_ want to talk about him but get  _more_ upset when I mention his ex-girlfriend, and you tell me you're divorced but you kept it a secret, and you're still helping him out in court. When I broke up with my ex, I couldn't  _wait_ to tell the world what a bitch she was; you're annoyed whenever I imply you might want to do the same."

The room seems kind of airless all at once. "That's not true," she says quickly, her voice, her fingers fluttering, clenching around the arms of her chair. "I just — I have integrity, it was an amicable divorce."

"And despite telling me you guys got divorced, whenever you talk about him, you call him your  _husband_."

The world goes still and cold. She can't think; she doesn't think, doesn't move, doesn't breathe.

What is she doing?

She's doing him favors. Calling him. Watching the news, reading the  _Post_  and  _Examiner_ and any other New York paper that covers the trial, getting gossip from Marshall, trying not to fight with Lily — not talking at all to Lily, when she can avoid it. All for him. All because of him.

Look at her. She's a mess.

Calvin's expression grows sympathetic. "Wow, sorry," he says. He really is a good reporter, she thinks, somewhere deep in the whirlpool. "I really am. I didn't mean to —" He closes his eyes. Opens them. "I'll leave you alone. Sorry."

"No, I…" no, she, what? "It's just all really fresh," she says, her words and breath tight. She's not crying. She's frozen. She's ice.

"I get it. I'm sorry," says Calvin, standing from his chair. He heads towards the door, stops before turning the handle. "I am going to write positive story about your husband," he says. "Don't worry." He pauses. "I'll see you around."

The door opens. Then shuts.

She doesn't move.

She's spent two weeks — two weeks thinking about him, two weeks wondering about him, two weeks doing everything he asks, and for what? What is she doing? Why? What does she want?

 _This is why I didn't want to come back home_ , she thinks, but what is 'this?'

She called him her husband — but that was only because he is, and only technically, because they're divorcing, because he wanted an out and — and so did she, yes, okay, maybe it surprised her a little, that's true, but it was ultimately a mutual choice; they couldn't talk without fighting, and ever since the thing last year, he'd…

Well, he'd fallen out of love with her. And she never should have — she should have known better to ever get involved with him.

And she didn't love him anymore, she reminds herself. That too.

She was so angry when she'd first come back to New York, seen how coldly he regarded her, making her wait in the doorway: she tries to summon that, return to that, but she feels numb and dizzy, the iris-smell filling her nose and mouth. She'd been so angry since the thing last year — at how he'd given up, how he'd lied when he said he was fine — and if she's, what, like this, now, then it's just because… you know… they used to be friends. And she cares about him. Cared about him.

That's all.

She sits at her desk and ends up thinking about their first time, first night together, their one night stand, hook up, whatever you call it. How she knew he wanted it, how he kept commenting and glancing over and didn't make a move. How she'd moved first, in the end. How had it been eight years already? What would have happened if she hadn't kissed him? If they'd never slept together? No feelings, no heartbreak, no loss. She could have helped Calvin with his story. She could have been on the babysitting calendar. She would still be allowed to care.

A long time passes before she feels steady again, before she can think again without falling into a maze of hurt and aching loss. She has a new handful of work e-mails waiting on her computer, a page of notes that no longer make sense to her, and a heaping mountain of irises covering her desk.

Her phone has three new text messages: Lily asking her to dinner, an automatic notification that her cell phone bill is due, and one from Ted Mosby.

_Hey Scherbatsky! Marshall said you're back in town._

_You're not avoiding me, are you? lol_

_Come around for dinner sometime! Are you free tonight? I'd love to catch up. lol_

She ignores Lily's invitation, and answers Ted's.

 

 

 

Robin hasn't been to White Plains since they announced the divorce. It feels strange, like traveling to another time, another world, outside of the city and into the suburbs. She takes a cab from the train station to Ted's house, pays, and lingers outside. Earlier this year, there hadn't been much of a yard: there still isn't, but she spots a couple of new looking shrubs, and there's a metal nameplate above the mailbox reading in engraved cursive  _Ted, Tracy & Penny_, with room to add another name or two underneath.

Like a one-year-old is getting any mail.

The whole thing strikes Robin is cheesy and silly, but also makes her wistful: as though somehow, when her back was turned, Ted went from the man she lived with and knew to someone  _else_. There's Ted Mosby, pretentious ex-boyfriend, who she's seen sunburned and hungover and tattooed; there's also Ted Mosby, professor and father, wearing vests with his blazers. He went right from lost, stupid youth to settled and permanent, and Robin started from the same point and… and.

She rings the doorbell.

Ted answers the door, and his face lights up when he sees her. "Hey! Welcome back to New York!" he says, hugging her.

She hugs him back, wrapping her arms around him. "Hate to break it to you, Mosby, but this isn't New York."

"Westchester is a 500 square mile county  _of_ New York state, established in 1683," Ted says, pulling back from the hug.

"Nerd," she says.

He smiles, and she smiles back. It's always been easy with Ted. "It's great to see you again! Come on in," he says. "You're just on time, we just finished cooking five minutes ago."

Robin follows Ted inside the house and into a foyer with stairs and open doorways leading to side rooms. She doesn't look into the family room. They head to the kitchen at the back of the house, small and yellow and bright during the day: a small table is tucked against the wall, set for three, Penny in a pink highchair, banging a pair of blocks together on her tray. Tracy's in the other half of the kitchen, her hair in a messy ponytail. "Hey, Robin!" she says, cheerful and distracted by the huge soup pot she's maneuvering off the stove.

Ted immediately peels away from Robin to help Tracy. She watches from the doorway as Ted reaches for the pot, yanks his hand away. Tracy points out that it's hot, rolling her eyes: he sulks and smiles, she laughs and puts the pot down at the table and kisses Penny on the crown of her head. Ted runs his hand under water; Tracy goes to the sink to check on him, tells him it's nothing, that he's fine. Isn't he fine, Penny? The baby gurgles an affirmative.

It's like a freaking Hallmark card. There are pet names and there's touching and Ted and Tracy maneuver around the kitchen, around one another, making it seem natural and easy and like they've been together for decades, lifetimes, not three years.

Robin watches from the doorway and feels — weird. Distant, like she's watching from a long ways away, like she's sitting at her desk and trying to grasp her far-away thoughts. Like she's watching Ted and his fiancée on TV, like she's removed from this life, this life that was so close to being hers. If she and Barney had never…

If she and Ted had never…

This isn't the life she'd ever wanted, but that had been something she'd told herself before losing it all.

"Hey, I didn't get to to say this before, with the great pot crisis of '16 and all, but it's great to see you again!" Tracy says, setting a bottle of wine down at the table and coming over, giving Robin a quick hug.

"You too," she says, her voice tight with put-on cheer.

"Have a seat! I just gotta heat up the bread. Sweetie, you sit too," she adds, and Robin and Ted make their way over to the table. Ted takes a seat beside Penny's high chair, and Robin sits in the chair opposite her. Ted fusses over the baby for a minute, picking up her blocks and making her giggle, and Robin watches. One time, Ted had passed out drunk in the living room, and they'd drawn genitalia on his face, Lily lending her artistic touch to the affair. Now he's a dad. Now he's settled and permanent and a completely different person.

"Hey, you should say hi to your aunt Robin," Ted coos at a gurgling Penny. He stands from his chair to lift her out of hers, addressing Robin in his normal voice. "She's not really talking yet, but we think that 'gada' means 'okay.' Doesn't it, sweetie?" Penny makes baby noises that don't sound like much of anything to Robin. "Here," Ted says, bouncing Penny in his arms and then thrusting the one year old at Robin.

She doesn't move. Her arms feel heavy and frozen. "Oh, uh, I'd…"

"Come on, she's your goddaughter," he says, beaming.

Robin doesn't want to hold Penny, but Ted keep smiling and she doesn't know what to do. She outstretches her arms to take her from her father. Penny's face scrunches up and she draws her chubby body back towards Ted. Even Robin can tell the toddler is distressed. She drops her arms again. "Whoops!" she says falsely. She doesn't know what she did wrong. She didn't want to do this and still feels rejected.

Ted frowns and pulls his daughter back against him. "Hey, Pen, come on, it's your aunt Robin." Penny pushes herself against him, shooting Robin a look that is clearly wary. "Sorry," says Ted. "Lately she's been kind of shy around stra… people she doesn't know."

 _Around strangers_. Because that's what Robin is, right? Ted's life isn't her life. She tries to laugh it off, rejection from a  _baby_ , and pours herself a big glass of the wine. "Hey, I haven't been around much," she says lightly.

"Are you going to stick around for a while?" Tracy asks, coming to the table with a sliced baguette. Ted bounces Penny for another moment, then puts her back in her chair.

"I'm not really sure yet," Robin says neutrally.  _No_ , she thinks. As soon as Theresa Stebbens provides her her divorce papers, she's getting the hell out of New York. Penny will keep on thinking she's a stranger. The thought almost makes her pause. "I'll probably stick around for the rest of the month."

"Are you going to Marshall and Lily's Halloween party?" Tracy asks. She serves them all lentil soup out of the pot, putting a small amount in a plastic bowl for Penny. Ted pours himself and Tracy wine, and Robin sips at hers.

"I don't know," she says.

"It'll be fun!" Ted says. "Trace and I are already working on our costumes."

"Everyone's going to be there," Tracy adds.

That's kind of the problem, she thinks. She takes a spoonful of soup. It's hot and spiced and tasty.

"Oh," says Ted, even though Robin hadn't spoken up. "Right. The… Barney situation."

Robin sighs. "And it's a week night, and I just started working again…"

"But we'd really love it if you could come," he says. "It's been so long since we've seen you. You wouldn't have to talk to him."

Just see him at a party? Probably hitting on the women there? It's Tracy, not Robin, who scoffs.

"What?" Ted asks, frowning at her.

"Come on," Tracy says. "You know what he's been like. No way Robin wants to go anywhere near that."

"That's not fair," Ted says. "He's stressed by the trial."

"You're making excuses for him," says Tracy, gesturing with her spoon, eyebrows raised.

"No, I'm supporting him. He's our friend." Ted rolls his eyes a little and dips his bread into his soup. This sounds like it's not an argument being had for the first time, both Ted and Tracy sounding exasperated rather than annoyed, but Robin doesn't understand, doesn't speak up. What are they talking about? She wants to know; she wants them to stop talking about him.

"Well, I'm not," Tracy says.

"You're not his  _friend_?" Ted asks sarcastically.

Tracy is taken aback, but doesn't immediately reply. Robin looks over at her in surprise.

For as long as Tracy's been a part of their group, she and Barney have gotten along well. They have that whole financial/economics thing, and Robin knows he almost looks up to her: credits her for 'setting him straight,' likes to go to her for support and advice. Even over Robin. Last year, during everything…

"Not while he's acting like this," Tracy says finally, looking down at her wine.

"This is him," Ted says. "This is Barney Stinson's natural state, he's always been like this."

"Well, I don't support it," Tracy says firmly. "Ever since the intervention, he's been an  _asshole_." She whispers the word with a glance at Penny. There was an intervention? Robin thinks. "I mean, jeez, Ted, he slept with…"

For the first time in a couple of minutes, Ted and Tracy remember Robin is sitting there. They turn to her with identical wide-eyed surprise.

She raises her glass to her lips to hide her expression, hopes her hand isn't shaking.  _He slept with. He slept with_.

"So," she says in a terrible, fake stab at lightness. "He's been sleeping around again?"

"Not…" Ted doesn't seem to know what to say.

"Yeah," says Tracy, stirring her stew around in her bowl.

Robin sees him on the front steps of the courthouse again, hands in pockets, smiling nervously, disarmingly, at the blonde woman.

She should have known, really. Sure, it's only been six months, and she hasn't — and she  _could_ have, and she didn't, because… because it hadn't seemed right, not yet, not while… but obviously that's not an issue for him. Obviously he's doing just fine. Obviously he doesn't care at all about…

Ted reaches over and puts his hand over hers. "I don't think he has been, not since July," he says.

Is that supposed to help her?  _Sure, he was whoring around town, but he stopped_! The blonde woman on the steps. He's started again.

"Hey, it's fine," she says, pulling her hand out from under his. "It's like you said. He's always been like this."

Her heart is thudding against her ribs. She's aware of Tracy looking at her somberly.

"Yeah," Ted agrees, "but that doesn't mean it doesn't suck."

It does suck. It seriously, totally sucks. Okay, they're broken up —  _divorced_ — but it sucks, it hurts and feels heavy and she doesn't want it to. She wants to be over this, she wants to be past this, not reminded at every turn. She thought she was. She was sure she was.

_Whenever you talk about him, you call him your husband._

"Okay," Tracy says, taking a deep breath, "Robin, I'm really sorry to keep talking about him like this, but," she turns to Ted. " _You're wrong_." She answers the unasked question before Ted can open his mouth. "He  _hasn't_ always been like this. He's been this huge — a-hole — since  _July_."

Ted gives Robin a quick, worried look, before replying to his fiancée. "I've — we've known him for  _years_. He's always been a huge, you know." Robin listens without hearing. "He has his good traits too, but he's  _never_ been nice. Only when…"

"When he was married? For a laugh?" Tracy asks cuttingly.

"Stop it," Robin snaps, pushing back from the table. Was it? Was it fake? A play he ran, a three year play, acting sweet, acting like he cared, like he — stop it. Stop thinking about it. Don't even think about it.

"I'm sorry," Tracy says. "But I'm just really, really sick of everyone defending him."

"He's my good friend!" Ted says. "I have to defend him!"

"No, sweetie, you're  _enabling_ him! I thought the intervention was to get him to get  _better_ , not… not turn into, I don't know, 'I'm too awesome for emotions?'"

"He  _did_ get better!" Ted argues, pushing his hands against his forehead. "He stopped acting crazy."

"And turned into an a-hole."

Ted and Tracy look stormily at one another across the table.

Robin covers her face in her hands. She can't look anymore. She can't see anymore. She can't pretend to not be bothered, to not be anything, anymore. This shouldn't be affecting her. She shouldn't care.

"Robin, I'm so sorry," Tracy says with a heavy sigh.

She hears a chair scrape against the floor, feels Ted's hand on her shoulder, sliding across her back. He pulls her into a sideways hug and she lets him, lets herself be hugged, feeling his hand rub up and down on her shoulder. "What happened in July?" she asks after what feels like a long time.

"Maybe we shouldn't talk about this stuff anymore," Ted suggests.

She shakes her head against his neck and shoulder. Penny, oblivious to everything, baby talks and hits her spoon against her tray. "I'm sick of trying to…" Pretend none of this is happening. Avoid Lily's texts, avoid conversations, not  _know_ , not understand, be left in the dark while everyone else — Marshall, Lily, Ted, Tracy,  _Calvin_ — knows more than her.

She's sick of pretending she's over this. "What happened in July?" Robin asks again.

"She should know," Tracy says quietly.

Ted is quiet. Rubs her shoulder. She keeps her eyes closed.

"Okay," he agrees, finally.

He lets go of her, pushes back to his spot at the table. Robin keeps her face covered, takes a shaky breath through her fingers, and puts her hands down. Blinks a couple of times. Reaches for her wine with uncertain fingers, and takes a big gulp. It's hot going down.

She looks at Ted.

He glances quickly at Tracy, and then makes eye contact with Robin. "Okay," Ted says again. "It was just after the Fourth of July…"

 

 

 

**Washington, D.C.**

**Friday, April 10th, 2020.**

**6:08 AM.**

 

 

 

The sun isn't quite up, but the morning is bright, the sky awash in gentle pinks. Even this early, residents of the neighborhood are up and about, many of them headed to government jobs. The Dalmatian runs a few paces ahead of his owner, tail wagging happily as they return home from their jog. He speeds up as they turn the corner and he catches sight of his street, racing ahead to the fence.

The dog jumps up at the wrought iron gate when he reaches it, one paw balancing on the top, before jumping back onto all fours and gazing hopefully backwards at his running partner, a few houses behind, and giving a small bark as if to say  _hurry up_.

"Hey," calls Barney, slowing to a walk, breathing a little heavily, but still in  _perfect shape_ thank you very much. "Dude, you  _know_ Robin's gonna yell at you for barking. Cool it!"

Johnny Lawrence's response is to sit down, tail thumping against the pavement.

Barney glances around them furtively as he unlatches the gate, in case their next door neighbours are around to witness him in his workout clothes, and Johnny Lawrence peels ahead, climbing up the steps to the front door and waiting again for Barney.

"And then she's just gonna yell at me," Barney says, continuing his train of thought, following his dog and pulling a little bit at his jacket's zip. "And then I'm gonna have to, like, not give you a treat later. How would you like  _that_? Do you think the  _real_ Johnny Lawrence slacked on  _his_ training? No! He listened to his master and it's only through his strength and diligence that he got to where he was, even if that Jersey punk took it all away from him. You should live up to that noble goal, bro."

He punctuates his little speech by scratching Johnny Lawrence's ear as he unlocks and opens the front door; as soon as it swings open, the dog loses all interest in him, tearing off into the house.

Ungrateful mutt.

Barney pulls off his shoes with the intent of heading upstairs to shower, but before he gets more than two steps he hears his wife's voice from the kitchen. He changes direction and enters the kitchen to find Robin sitting at the island, which is strewn in papers. Johnny Lawrence is sitting upright at her feet. "Did you have a good run, Johnny?" she asks the dog, leaning over at a dangerous angle to give the Dalmatian a kiss on the nose.

Barney leans against the doorframe, watches the curve of her shoulders and back. "Robin," he interrupts, and is a little gratified when she jumps and straightens, not having seen him approach; "we've talked about this. His name is  _Johnny Lawrence_."

"The deal was that you could name him.  _Not_  that I had to use that name," she retorts, giving the dog a scratch on the head and turning back to her papers. He scoffs loudly and approaches the island; she puts down her pen and gives him a quick peck. "Hey, you," she says.

"Morning." He looks over the papers with faint curiosity. "When did you get up?"

"Right after you did?" Robin guesses, most of her attention already back on her notes.

"That's pretty early," he says doubtfully. Normally Robin doesn't so much as stir until after he's back from his run and has a pot of coffee ready and waiting for her. They've gone through stages where he'd wake her earlier, or she'd set an alarm, but she hates waking before she needs to and he hates dealing with her half awake. "Ted and the kids are gonna be here this afternoon, and you're going to be suuuuper grumpy."

"Yeah, you know," she says, already sounding kinda grumpy, "I'm interviewing the president today, I thought maybe I should have questions prepared for the occasion."

"Wow, you're just doing this  _now_? Robin, you're interviewing the  _president_."

She shoves his arm hard enough that he stumbles back a step. "Shut up," she says.

"I'm just saying —" she gives him a look that's a little more upset than he'd planned on when he started teasing her, and cuts himself off, scratching at his neck. "I'm just saying, you're gonna do fine," he amends, pleased with his recovery.

Robin grunts a little, not really responding, her gaze fixed back on her papers.

"Seriously," he says.

She scribbles down a note while he watches. Just as he's starting to open his mouth to say something else, she sighs loudly. "This is just a big deal, okay? Like, holy crap, this could destroy my entire career if I mess this up."

"You're not going to mess this up," he says. He knows she's freaking out about this, but he's having a hard time taking it seriously.

"You don't know that!" She stabs her pen at one of her papers. "I mean, look, right here: I was going to ask about the  _Greater Africa Climate Conference_. Right, like everyone in the world hasn't already asked about that. I could probably answer it myself! I swore I wasn't going to softball this, and —"

Sensing his master's distress, Johnny Lawrence presses his face against Robin's ankle, tail beating against the island.

"Are you being serious right now?" Barney asks, leaning against the island. It was a rhetorical question, so he ignores her glare. "You're going to be  _fine_. You're going to kick this interview's ass, and everyone's gonna be interviewing  _you_ , and then we're taking Ted and the kids to Plume tonight to celebrate, and then we're going to watch it again on tv, and later on  _we're_  going to  _do it_ , and anyway, I already bought the champagne."

"Kids can't eat at Plume," Robin says, but he's gratified by her reluctant smile.

"Please," he says. "I know a guy."

Her smile lingers; shaky and nervous. She reaches her hand down to pet the dog. "You're really sure about this?" she asks, cautiously; she still hates to seek reassurance like this.

"Definitely," he says, because he's supposed to and because, honestly, he thinks her nerves are a little ridiculous, because she's obviously going to kill this interview and go down in history as the best journalist ever. She smiles a little more sincerely, and he leans in for another quick kiss. "And if you can't think of good questions, I bet you could call  _Calvin_ ," he can't help but add.

He's rewarded with a laugh as she shoves him again. "Go take a shower; you smell."

"I smell  _awesome_ ," he corrects, giving Johnny Lawrence a pet himself as he heads back out of the kitchen. A few steps down the hall, he has a great idea and turns around, popping his head back in the room. "Hey, Robin," he says.

"Yeah?" she replies, swiveling her body to look over at him.

"Wanna  _come_  with me?" He waggles his eyebrows at her; she smiles and rolls her eyes.

"Take a shower, jackass," says Robin, and turns back to her notes and coffee, Johnny Lawrence curled up at the foot of her stool.

Grinning, Barney heads upstairs.


	6. what happened in july

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoi everyone! just two quick notes before we get going here. nothing bad… unless you hate this story, in which case, i'm sorry to inform you there's gonna be way more of it to come. :(
> 
> a) this chapter got wicked long. like, i was almost 10k in and only halfway done. so i ended up having to split it in half — luckily there was a good stopping point, you'll see — and that means the July Incident will officially span two chapters instead of just the one.
> 
> b) i've also realized that my cheerful 'this story will be 12 chapters long!:D' in the prologue is total malarky. yeah. no way can i finish everything i have planned in 12 chapters. i do have it all plotted and outlined, but i severely underestimated my proclivity for tl;dr and the amount of stuff i have to get through. currently i'm hoping it'll be like 20 chapters, but honestly? who the heck knows! it ends when it ends.
> 
> anyway, this is a big 'un, in clearly more than one sense, so… i hope you enjoy!

 

 

**White Plains, New York.**

**Tuesday, October 18th, 2016.**

 

 

_Okay._

_It was just after the Fourth of July._

_After the two of you announced your divorce, Barney… well, he was acting pretty normal. I think we were all waiting for something to happen… at least, I was. I kept waiting for him to show up here drunk out of his mind, or get a tattoo;_ something _. But Barney … he barely seemed to react. Just went on acting the same as ever._

_He_ did _start calling me more than usual. He wanted to hang out, go drinking, all the time. The first couple of times I went along with it, assuming he felt lonely or depressed and was reaching out to me for support… but all he wanted to do was sit in MacLarens and shoot the shit._

_I was looking, I really was. I_ wanted _him to be sad. I broke up with you all those years ago and turned into a beard-y emotional wreck. I thought that was the_ least _Barney_ _could do. But… he just didn't seem upset, no matter how hard I looked. Barney's emotions have always been totally off the normal curve, and so I started to think that he really_ was _fine. And then my summer program started._

_This June I had the chance this year to do something I've always wanted to do: teach an additional summer course. Just picture it: for two weeks, me and my intrepid students would do nothing but live and breathe the architecture of the greatest city in the world. We toured internationally recognized landmarks like the Empire State Building, Flatiron Building, the GNB Tower… I was able to bring my class to the Hearst Tower, the Dakota — did you know there's a great time travel book featuring the Dakota? It's called_ Time and Again _, and it's really a love story towards New York's amazing architecture just as much as…_

_Okay, okay. The story._ Time and Again _by Jack Finney, by the way. Okay. A little over a dozen of my students signed up for the course, and we met every day but weekends, so as you can imagine, I was pretty busy. After a few times dropping everything to go drink with Barney, I told him no more. Tracy was stuck alone up here all day with Penny because of the program, and I couldn't start spending my_ nights _hanging out in a bar on top of that._

_Barney complained I was abandoning him. His_ exact _words were "being a boring middle-aged loser when you could be awesomeing with me," so I invited him to join my class for a day or two. He came along the day we visited Grand Central Station, then said it was so boring he'd rather die than do that again._

_Which is_ blatantly _untrue. Did you know that famous constellation painting is, in fact, backwards? In reality, the stars are actually aligned in the opposite direction that the ceiling indicates, and —_

_Right, got it! The Barney thing! Okay!_

_A couple of weeks after my summer course ended, things… well; things started to happen…_

 

 

**July 8th, 2016.**

 

 

When the knock came on Ted's office door, he was working on his lesson plan for the coming semester. Even going on five years as a professor, he still rarely feels like he has any idea how to lesson plan: why can't he just teach his kids about the wonder that is the living, breathing, architectural miracle that is New York, New York, lecturing off the cuff, freestyle, relying only on his natural passions and allowing his innermost eloquence to flow like poetry from his soul?

Or some crap like that?

But he looks up from his crossword puzzle at the knock.

It's one of his students, a mousy girl named Louisa. She had been in his summer course at the beginning of the month. Ted had been surprised to discover that not all of his previous semester's students had clamored at the bit to sign up for such an intimate, inspiring tour of New York's landmarks; Tracy had gently pointed out that most eighteen-year-olds would probably rather spend their summer break on a beach, but still! Only fourteen students?

As one of the fourteen, Louisa is officially in Ted's good books: he gives her a smile. "Hey, Louisa!"

Louisa smiles hesitantly back, and hovers in the doorway. "Hi, Professor Mosby." She bites her lip.

"Please. Call me Ted," Ted says generously. He doesn't care what anyone says, he _is_ the cool young professor around here. Suck it, Professor _Rollins_.

"Okay," says Louisa. He waits a second, but she doesn't call him Ted, come into the room, or in any other way hint as to what she's doing here. He feels the first trickle of something. Students almost never come to see him _just_ to say hi.

"And I'd _say_ dropping in to see me on your summer break isn't going to get you extra points for next semester," says Ted, "but let's face it, you just earned two points on your first pop quiz." He smiles at her, taps his pen against the newspaper. "You _did_ sign up for my class, right?"

Louisa nods, takes a deep breath — he can see her shoulders rise and fall — and enters his office.

"Great," Ted says, as she looks around, takes a seat in one of the chairs on the other side of his desk. "Next semester is going to be awesome. We're starting out with a unit on Neo-Classicism and the evolution of _New_ Classical design, the differences in them both, and compared to _Classical_ design…" he continues to ramble on about the architectural styles, keeping a close eye on Louisa, hoping his rambling relaxes her a little bit. She's clearly nervous about something: no nineteen year old comes to school in the middle of summer vacation to hang out. No matter what a cool teacher he is.

After a couple of minutes, Ted's more or less out of Neo Classicism fun facts, and Louisa doesn't seem much more relaxed, staring at her lap, her fists clenching at her jeans.

"Look," Ted says, finally, "is everything okay?"

He's thinking, in this moment, it's a grades thing. Maybe she needs to drop his class. Maybe she's struggling with some other school work. Maybe, _maybe_ , Louisa is having trouble at home, or with a friend, or with a boy, and is going to him for help, mentorship, advice. He's nervous, yes, but that knot of dread, that sinking, dizzying feeling of fear, his fingers numb, his breath lost, his head spinning and numb: that came later.

But not much later.

Louisa takes a deep, shuddering breath, squeezing her eyes shut. She exhales harshly and immediately sucks in another breath, her cheeks reddening, her fingers clenched in her lap. "I… I need, I wanted to know your friend's phone number," she stammers. She doesn't open her eyes. "B-… Barney."

Ted feels the fear then, just a trickle, a slip of ice in his stomach. He feels no confusion, he has no moment where he doesn't understand what had happened: he's known Barney too long, too well, for anything but the worst case scenario to occur to him. _Nineteen_ , he thinks. _Jesus fucking Christ, she's nineteen_. Grand Central Station. He remembers standing with Barney during a quiet moment, laughing with him about… about what? Something stupid, laughing at something one of Ted's students said. He doesn't remember Barney talking to Louisa. But he must have. But he did.

Nineteen. She's fucking _nineteen_. She's a shy kid from East Harlem and she's _nineteen_ and he slept with her, tricked her, _lied_ to her, one of Ted's _students_ , and suddenly he feels like he's going to be sick. From disgust, from anger… from guilt. He should have known better — should he have? He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to do. Louisa. She's sitting in front of him with her eyes squeezed shut, her face screwed up. It's only been a few seconds; Ted looks for something to do with his hands, his body, his face — some words to say, some apology to give.

"Louisa," he says; "I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry, I —"

Fat tears spill down her cheeks. "I — we — and now I — I think I'm pregnant," says Louisa.

Everything stops.

 

 

**July 8th, 2016.**

 

 

Ted doesn't know if he means to punch Barney or grab him by the collar; when Barney opens his apartment door, Ted comes after him, still undecided. He ends up pushing him, shoving both his hands against Barney's collarbone and _shoving_ , sending Barney tumbling back a step in surprise, tripping over his apartment's foyer, stumbling backwards against an endtable, hitting the new couch, falling against the arm. "Dude, what the hell—" Barney yelps, brow furrowing in anger.

Ted isn't a violent person, isn't an _angry_ person, but he follows Barney's stumbling into the apartment and wants to _punch_ him, wants to _hurt_ him, wants to do _something_ , _anything_ until Barney stops, just stops. He shoves him again; this time, Barney falls onto the sofa. It'd almost be funny — his indignant expression, his sprawl — if Ted wasn't so _angry_.

"What the hell? What the _hell_? You slept — you fucked one of my students!" Ted yells, as Barney pushes himself off his back, moves to sit up, stares balefully up at Ted.

He doesn't react with surprise, his expression doesn't reveal any guilt, he continues to pick himself up off the sofa, rubbing his neck, looking indignant. "Yeah, so?"

"No —" Ted shouts, wanting very much to shove him again, before Barney really finishes his sentence, "no, no _so_ , no _so what_ , you —"

"Slept with her!" Barney says loudly, his voice betraying a slight edge, something almost like annoyance — he straightens his jacket. "So what?"

"So what? So _fucking_ what, she's nineteen!" Ted shouts again. Barney scoffs and all Ted wants to do is hit him, hit him until he stops, stops — everything, existing, being this, hurting people, he doesn't know, just _stops_. Ted makes an inarticulate noise, trying not to shout again, hoping, _wanting_ Barney to stop on his own, to betray some guilt or, or understanding — that this was _wrong_ , that he _knows_ , that… anything. And then Ted can forgive him, and they can fix this together. This can be fixed. He hopes to God it can be fixed.

"Nineteen…" Barney says, straightening his clothes again, adjusting his sleeve, and Ted waits and holds his breath and wants to hit him and wants to see it, some fucking _conscience_ from his _friend_ , and instead Barney swallows — looks down and then meets Ted's eye, shrugs with _eye contact_ , and says: "Legal."

Ted can't control his lunge, the abrupt steps towards Barney; Barney jumps backwards, now prepared. "So what!" Barney yells, voice full of bluster, backing into his kitchen island. "So _what_? I'm single, — I can do what I want, so — so what?"

"So _what_?" Ted shouts, and he wanted Barney to show guilt, show remorse, show _something_ besides nervous defensiveness, before he told him, he wanted to work this out _together_ , but he can't see straight, can't _think_ : "She's fucking _pregnant!"_

Then the only sound is Ted's breath, heavy in his ears, his heart pounding in his chest. Barney's apartment is so _quiet_. Thick glass blocking out the sounds of the city below and around them, quiet, high grade appliances, no ticking clocks or background murmur; just the slight hum of air conditioning from another room. For someone who never shuts up, for someone so loud, Barney's apartment is always cool and silent.

But he's silent now. Frozen, standing as he was, one hand braced against the counter, his mouth slightly open, unblinking, unmoving. His eyes are open. Not unblinking — _open_ , and Ted can see it there, welling up, no mask, no defense, _open,_ and Ted meets his gaze, still breathing heavily, still furious, but Barney just stands there, unmoving, no walls or masks or shields, silent and guilty and terrified.

"You fucked up," Ted says harshly, hoping, believing, Barney's finally got it — Barney nods his head once, jerkily, and walks past Ted, uneven on his feet, towards the door. Ted turns on his feet, not sure where Barney is going — to find Louisa, he thinks, he hopes. To find her and — "You have to talk to her, _fix_ this. Do _right_ by her, or I swear to God… "Barney stumbles into the display table at the back of the sofa, jars it, the sword. Just brushes against it, really, moving too slowly for it to have really hurt, but it stops him. "I thought you knew better," Ted continues. "I thought you _were_ better, I really —" Barney looks over at him. There's a different look in his eyes now, one that stops him.

"That's funny, Ted," Barney says, nodding, a sick parody of a grin spreading across his face, his eyes brights. "That's funny!"

"There's nothing funny about _any_ of this," Ted says, his voice rising again.

Barney whirls away and breaks his lamp.

It happens too fast for Ted to understand what is happening: Barney turning, his arm outstretched, a crash and thud and shatter, an empty side table. It's too fast for him to react, to even think the worlds _what the hell_ , there's another shatter, glass breaking, another lamp — Barney lifts the glass table, topples it over on its side, kicks it, shatters it, turns to the display table, knocks the sword to the floor, but it's just a series of movements, to Ted: Barney moving, turning, things vanishing, crashing, shattering, bits and pieces of things now on the floor, he's breaking everything he can reach, throwing over his stereo, kicking at the glass of his balcony door, and then again, and a third time, and now Ted realizes, what Barney is doing is dangerous, and his feet crunch and slide on glass and metal and bits of things as he grabs Barney by the shoulders — Barney struggles, Ted _pulls — pulls_ him away from the window, the glass. They shove at one another, Barney's expression taut and furious and wild. He breaks free of Ted's grip and Ted grabs him again, it feels almost like roughhousing but it's not, it's worse, Barney elbows him in the gut and Ted thinks for a moment he's going to throw up. His foot slips on a lampshade; he keeps shoving at Barney, pulling at him, like he's trying to hug him, but Barney keeps struggling, breathing fast and hard, yanking himself towards the window, towards the table, _away_. "let _go_ ," he's complaining, but that's too light a word — arguing, fighting, pleading, _begging_ , _"Let go of me_. Let go, let me go, I'm _fine_ , I'm _done_ , let me go!"

Ted lets go, and they reel apart. "This isn't fine!" Stormtrooper, potted plant, stereo, display, lamp, lamp, table. They're all on the floor. The stormtrooper's head has fallen from the body. Shards crunch underfoot. "What the — what the hell?" he shouts, questions, his chest and shoulders moving with each gasping breath.

"We're good!" Barney interrupts, pressing his fist to his mouth, eyes darting around the mess. He takes a step backwards. "Everything's good!" He doesn't make another break for the door, for something else to destroy.

Ted is… terrified. He doesn't know what's happening, he doesn't understand what Barney is doing, how his friend could just — in half a second, how he switched from one thing to another, silent, just tried to destroy — the way he had _smiled_ , and then — The way he looks now, his eyes wild and red, and Ted doesn't know, honestly has no clue, if he's going to do it again. He's scared he will. He doesn't feel like he knows this man in front of him at all. He has to say something. He has to make some speech, say something wise and comforting, or… or smart, mature, _understanding_ , but Ted doesn't understand, doesn't know what just happened, doesn't like the way Barney's eyes keep darting around his living room.

"Dude," Ted says, his voice shaky, his gaze falling on the fist Barney still has pressed over his mouth. "you're bleeding."

Barney lowers his hand, looking at a thin trickle of blood squeezing out from his curled fingers. They watch together as he unfurls his fingers, revealing a gash, running from the meat of his thumb up towards his little finger, messy and red. "Oh," Barney says, sounding only mildly surprised. Ted sees something in the blood at the same time Barney does; before he can stop him, Barney's reaching for it with his other hand, pulling at something with his thumb and forefinger. Blood wells up and fills his palm.

"Stop," Ted says in a rush, too late; he turns to the kitchen to find a dishtowel, catches sight of the picture on the fridge. He hurries to Barney with the towel.

"It's not deep," Barney says. He hasn't moved: he's examining the glass he pulled from his hand with a blank interest. Blood trickles down his wrist, staining his shirt sleeve.

"We need to get you to a hospital," Ted says, disagreeing with his friend's assessment with one look at the cut. He presses the towel against Barney's palm; Barney sucks in a pained breath that Ted ignores.

"I'm —" Barney starts to whine.

Ted looks up at him, and Barney shuts his mouth. Good. "No," Ted says harshly. "We're going to a hospital. You have _no_ idea what a day I am having because of you."

Barney scoffs. "Sure, Ted," he says, yanking his hand free of Ted's grasp, using his left hand to wrap the dishtowel more tightly over his palm. He kicks angrily at the sword on the floor.

Ted clenches his teeth, feeling that nauseous anger again. Louisa coming to his office, talking to her for hours and hours, trying to calm her down, comfort her, apologize to her, find some way to help, make things better, know there's no way he did — and then here, coming here, fighting and yelling and whatever — whatever Barney just did, and now he's _bleeding_ , now Ted has to go to the hospital, take care of him, take _responsibility_ for him, because Barney clearly can't take care of himself, and he's going to have to call Tracy, she'll be stuck with the baby, all because of _Barney_ , and now he has the nerve to complain about it? Ted's trying to help; this isn't about…

With a cold feeling, Ted realizes that he's wrong. It is about Barney. The day _Ted_ is having?

The picture on the fridge: small, maybe two by three inches, held up with a GNB magnet. From the wedding. A candid shot taken from their table: Barney, a wine glass halfway to his mouth, laughing at something Marshall, almost out of frame, must have just said: looking happy and young and like the Barney Ted knows, _likes_ , the one he thinks of as the _real_ Barney, light and fun and never too serious. And Robin: slumped in her seat, her body angled so that Barney's arm and shoulder support her back, not quite noticing the photographer, looking off towards where the band had been playing. With her hair fallen slightly out of place, her lips slightly curved in a smile, she looks beautiful, serene, gorgeous in a way Ted loved for years, can still appreciate: Robin looks like a picture of a woman, not a living, breathing one.

In the photo, Barney is smiling, laughing: Robin is facing the other direction, beautiful, distant, her fingers brushing at the locket around her neck.

There are no other photos hanging in the apartment; after all, they're divorced. If Barney was going to keep one, Ted wonders why he didn't choose a photo where she looked happier.

He's still angry with Barney. He's still _disgusted_ with Barney. But Barney stands in the shattered mess with a towel around his hand, and all Ted can feel is sorry for him. "Come on," Ted says, trying to even out his voice. "We need to go to the hospital for your hand."

Barney pushes the dishtowel further against his palm. It must hurt. He looks up at Ted and looks lost, and scared, and all the things Ted wanted when he stormed into the apartment. He's relieved to see Barney understanding, but it's a hollow feeling, mixed in with the sound of breaking glass, Louisa's tear-streaked face, the tired understanding that that laughing, real Barney on the fridge is gone and may never return. "I can't have a kid, Ted," Barney says quietly, his voice shaking.

"We'll figure this out, buddy," Ted says, wearily.

They go to the hospital. Barney gets four stitches, and Ted calls Tracy and apologizes and hopes, exhausted and scared, that this was bottom and there's nowhere left to go but up.

But it's only the beginning.

 

 

**July 12th, 2016**

 

 

"He freaked out," Ted says, sighing. Four days later, and he still feels tense about it. He looks forlornly at his beer: the bottle is already half empty, and when it's gone, that's it for the night. He's torn between trying to ration his remaining half, or chugging the damn thing.

"Yeah, that's sounding like an understatement," Lily says in a low voice. She grunts a little as she scoops one of Daisy's toys up off the floor, throwing it with some force across the apartment and towards the kids' room. Ted's not entirely surprised when the next word out of her mouth is a vehement, " _Damn it_! What the hell is that idiot doing?" She sits down beside him on the sofa with an _oof_ : five months along, Lily is definitely starting to _look_ pregnant-er, and honestly, she's been pretty cranky from hormones for a couple of weeks now. Ted honestly hates to bring this to her at all.

"I don't know," he replies. "I'm just worried sick about Louisa."

"How is she?" Lily asks. "I keep thinking about this girl and… wanting to murder Barney. Until he _dies_."

Ted shrugs helplessly. "She's… upset, obviously. I wanted to offer to help her, but I wasn't sure what I could even _say_. I did offer to go with her to talk to Barney, but she didn't want me to, and it's not as though I could force her. I feel like," he admits quietly, "this is all my fault."

If he hadn't invited Barney along. If he hadn't given Barney the chance to meet Louisa. If he hadn't tried to _be there_ for him… then what? Would it just be some other girl? Part of Ted thinks that would be better — anyone would be better than his student — but he knows that's not true. He thinks of that photo on the fridge again, thinks about telling Lily about it. But what would she say? What does it even mean? He doesn't know why it's stuck in his head like this. For all Ted knows, it means nothing at all: Barney just kept it because he thinks Robin looks hot in it. After all, he used to keep whole _scrapbooks_ of conquests, and that's all Robin was to him, in the end…

Ted takes another sip of his beer.

"It's not your fault," Lily says. "It's not…" she trails off.

"If you say it isn't 'anyone's' fault, hi, have you met Barney?" Ted says darkly.

Lily's always had a soft spot for Barney, but after a thoughtful few seconds, she agrees with him. "Yeah, this is _definitely_ his fault. I just thought…"

"Yeah," Ted says glumly. "Me too."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, probably both thinking about the same things. "So what are we gonna do with this son of a bitch?" Lily asks finally.

Ted sighs. "I hate to ask, but can you and Marsh keep an eye on him? He really freaked me out the other day."

"You don't have to ask," Lily says, patting his hand. "Trust me, I'm keeping _both_ my eyes on Barney from now on."

Ted finishes off his beer. They talk about other things for a while: their kids, Lily's pregnancy, possible summer plans, a gallery owner Lily is feuding with, lesson planning, work: it's easy, because it always is, but Barney and Louisa are still weighing heavily on Ted's mind, and he knows it's weighing on Lily, too. But he doesn't know what to say, what to do. Getting angry again won't help, and it isn't as though his anger has faded. It's just… steadied, settled, formed a weight in his head and belly, a knot in his stomach. What would getting angry do? Ted's pushing forty: he's too old for dramatic disownments and big proclamations. He could shut Barney out of his life, but he feels responsible for Louisa, somehow responsible for Barney, too.

"Have you heard from Robin recently?" Ted asks, in a lull in the conversation.

Lily's quiet for a little too long. "No," she says. "just a couple of instant messages on Skype. She's, you know, busy." Lily's trying not to sound bitter, so Ted pretends not to notice it.

"I'm just glad she's not here to have to deal with this," he says.

He stays in the apartment, talking with Lily, for a little while longer; soon it's time for him to start heading back to White Plains. Once outside, Ted starts down the street, then stops, doubles back: he heads down the steps into the bar. Judging by the number of times Barney has begged Ted to come here with him in the last few weeks, Barney still hangs out here. Maybe Ted can have Carl keep an eye on him, just in case.

At four in the afternoon on a weekday, MacLaren's isn't exactly busy: Ted's automatically scans the booth to see who's there, but it, and most of the tables around it, are empty. He looks to the bar, next, for Carl… and there's Barney. He's talking to a pair of women whose bobbed hair, backpacks, and colorful leggings scream _tourists on a girl's holiday_ ; they appear to be in their late forties, early fifties, which is in itself a little unusual for Barney, but otherwise, Ted's struck with a sense of sick déjà vu: how many times, over how many years, has he walked into this bar to see Barney doing exactly this, leaning against the counter, smiling, talking to a woman?

Ted makes his way over in a daze, thinking of Louisa, thinking of blood welling in Barney's palm.

"So you just punched the window _open_?" the dark haired woman is asking breathlessly.

"I couldn't just let Mittens burn to death," Barney says gravely, looking forlornly at his bandaged hand. "What kind of a fireman would I — hiiii, Ted," he says brightly, catching sight of him, not noticing or ignoring Ted's expression. "Cathy, Sandra, this is my friend Ted. He's a New York fireman too — ooaugh!" Barney yelps, as Ted yanks him by the arm off his bar stool.

"What the hell are you doing?" Ted snaps; Barney wrests himself away and then pushes them towards the kitchen door, taking a right towards the trash and the alley. Although it's been a few years since they were MacLaren's regulars, no one stops them; Ted protests Barney's manhandling, but Barney shoves him with his left hand.

"What am I doing? What are you doing! If you're not going to help me, keep your mouth shut!" Barney hisses, glancing back towards the door to the bar as if the women may be pressed against it, listening in.

"You think I'm not going to help you?" Ted asks incredulously.

Barney's eyes spark with interest. "You are going to help me? Awesome! I'd offer you one, but Tracy, and —"

"Of course I'm not going to help you!" Ted hisses.

"I'm confused." Barney scratches his cheek.

"There's no way in hell — are you paying attention? — There. Is. No. Way. In. Hell., that I am ever, _ever_ wingmanning for you, ever again," Ted says. Barney frowns a little, but doesn't burst into theatrics; Ted feels frustration well up inside him. "And you know that! You knew that the second you saw me, that's why you dragged me out here and led with _if you're not going to help_!" He gives Barney a second to deny it; Barney narrows his eyes and looks somewhere over Ted's shoulder. "If you know what you're doing is wrong —"

"Okay, what I'm doing is not wrong," Barney says, taking a step backwards. "First of all."

"What about _Louisa_?" Ted snaps, feeling that _want to shove him_ feeling again.

"What about her?" Barney asks, sounding a little impatient.

"She's _pregnant_ ," Ted says, hating how his voice lowers, as if it's some big secret they can avoid. He wishes they could.

Barney looks incredulous. "So what?" He looks at Ted, and then away. "Did you think I was gonna… be with her or something? Some kinda shotgun… yeah, please," he laughs humorlessly.

"You can't be serious right now," Ted groans, pressing his hand against his forehead.

"Uh, actually, I _am_ serious," Barney says, his voice light and incredulous and all manner of things it should not be, not when they're talking about the nineteen year old student he seduced and knocked up. " _If_ she's pregnant, and she hasn't even seen a doctor yet, it has nothing to do with me." He shifts his jaw. Ted remembers him a few days ago, his voice shaking in his apartment. "Now, those women in there… I have plenty to _do_ with _them_."

"You really want to go for the belt with two tourists pushing fifty?" Ted asks flatly, disgusted, exhausted.

"That's ageist," Barney says, straightening his tie. "I'm disappointed in you, Theodore."

_I'm disappointed in you_ , Ted thinks. He's more than disappointed, he's disgusted. He doesn't know what to say, how to say it. He can't say it. He knew that Barney was okay with this whole… divorce thing; that had been obvious for months now, and truthfully, Ted had been pretty disappointed with him ever since. In his heart of hearts, Ted had always known that Robin would get tired of Barney sooner or later — he thinks of that photo again — but he'd been telling himself that he'd been in Barney's shoes before, his friend needed him. As frightening as the other day had been, Ted had known, _thought_ he'd known, just that. Barney was hurting and needed him.

It looked as though that was a fluke. "Whatever," Ted says tiredly. All he wants to do is go home. Hug Penny, kiss Tracy, get the hell out of this room, the hell out of this life. Forget about asking Lily and Marshall to keep an eye on him, forget about asking _Carl_ — why is he trying to look out for Barney, when Barney clearly doesn't give a shit? "You know what, do what you want," he says. He glares preemptively at him, expecting some kind of sarcastic retort. There's a look in Barney's eyes that throws him, some kind of surprise he can't name, and Ted sighs. "Have you at least _talked_ to her?"

Barney shifts his jaw, turns his whole body away, nods at a wall covered in food and liquor license in cheap frames. "She's not even sure," he says. Scoffs a little: "I told her to buy a freaking _test_ , but she's a good little Catholic, probably thinks it's Jesus in there or something. She said she was going to a doctor tomorrow. _Okay_?" There's something — Louisa getting checked, Barney drinking in the afternoon, but before Ted can weave the two together, Barney's shoulders straighten. "Can we just? Do you mind? Thing one and thing two are waiting." He nods out towards the bar.

Ted feels exhausted again. "Whatever," he says. "Do whatever you want, man." But before he's even finished the sentence, Barney has pushed past him and back into the bar.

 

 

**July 13th, 2016**

 

 

The woman has seen better days: skeletally thin, with stringy highlighted hair and clothes meant for a woman fifteen, twenty years her junior: skinny jeans, a low-cut blouse, dangly bracelets. Marshall tries not to judge people, he really does, but he takes one look and thinks _drugs_ and _prostitution_. Hoping Lily hasn't noticed yet, a few steps behind, wrangling Marvin, Marshall hurries into the bar and straight for Barney and his new lady friend. "Oh, what a charming family restaurant," he announces loudly, "Lil, I think it just so happens that this restaurant serves alcohol, too!"

No one — Carl, the lunch crowd — so much as reacts. Shelly, a new waitress, gives Daisy a little wave as she walks past with a sandwich; from Marshall's arms, Daisy waves energetically back. With his proclamation out of the way, Marshall practically pushes his daughter into a surprised Barney's arms. "Hey, buddy! Wow, can you believe we just ran into you here?"

The possible street-walker looks surprised and alarmed. There's a half second where Marshall thinks Barney might shove Daisy back to him, but in the end, he just shifts the girl to hold her more comfortably. "Uncle Barney!" Daisy chirps, "Daddy says I have fries!"

Barney looks over Marshall's shoulder as Lily leads Marvin to the booth — back to Marshall — at the woman he'd been talking to — and then he smiles insincerely at his niece. "Fries? Awesome!" he says, giving Daisy a bounce, but it doesn't reach his eyes, and if Marshall didn't know better he'd say Barney looked… mad. But he's not sure. Barney doesn't get angry much. "Excuse me," Barney says to the woman; stands from his stool, and carries Daisy over to the booth. Marshall follows, pulling a chair from an empty table.

"Heya, Barney," Lily says smugly, watching him settle Daisy onto the bench.

"Heya, _Lil_ ," Barney says, in that fake cheerful voice again, "since when do you guys come here for lunch?"

"We live right upstairs," she says with a tight little smile. _She's_ mad, Marshall can tell. Ted asked them yesterday to keep an eye out for Barney: not even an hour later he'd texted her and told her Barney was picking up women downstairs again. And not even a _day_ later… Truth be told, Marshall's a little angry, too. But Lily's been raging about it, quiet and seething, and he's trying to stay calmer for her sake. He reaches to the floor, to Lily's diaper bag, and produces some coloring books and a handful of crayons for their kids.

"Yeah, so how come this is the first time I've seen you guys here in…"

"In what?" Lily asks dangerously.

"Weeks! Months!" A red crayon rolls across the table; Barney slams his hand down on it and hands it back to Marvin.

"And I guess you'd know, since you're here all the time, making new friends," Lily retorts, looking meaningfully over at the bar, the woman still sitting there, now turned back to her drink.

"Hey," says Marshall, putting a hand on his wife's arm. Lily forces herself to take a deep breath.

"Yeah, because my _old_ friends are so much better," Barney says, leaning against the back of the bench.

"Hey," Marshall says again, this time to Barney. "Ted's been driving himself crazy over all this. Over _you_."

"Yeah, spare us the 'woe is me' crap," Lily says in a low voice. Marshall glances over at the kids to make sure they didn't pick up on the word _crap_ , but they're bickering over colors and not paying attention. "You got yourself into this mess."

"Have you heard the results yet?"

Barney stares up at the ceiling. "No," he says shortly. He doesn't elaborate. Marshall tries to imagine, he really does, what his friend must be going through. But every pregnancy in his life has been a wonderful, amazing experience, even when Lily started getting cranky and weird with pregnancy brain. He tries to imagine if some other woman told him she was pregnant, but how would that be possible? Okay, what if Lily had died years ago of a tragic, yet painless illness, and Marvin and Daisy urged Marshall to move on… but why would they do that? Why would they ever want to replace their beloved mother with some secretary who, while smokin' hot, wasn't Lily and never would be?

Right: Barney. It'd feel wrong, false and terrifying, to discover he had to start a family with someone besides his Lily. But Marshall doesn't think that's a problem for Barney the way it is for him. After all, Barney and Robin divorced, and Barney didn't seem all that sad about it. He hadn't been crying on the floor like Marshall had when Lily left him; he didn't grow a beard like Ted… hell, he didn't even make a whiny take-me-back video this time.

Ted insists Barney is acting out over secret fear and heartbreak, and Marshall would really like that to be true… but he just doesn't see it.

"Things are going _fine_ ," Barney says, in response to some question from Lily Marshall missed. "Awesome, even. I'm on kinda a hot streak right now. Ever since Ted yelled at me about what's-her-face…"

" _Louisa_ ," Lily interrupts.

"Sure. Anyway, get this. I got a nurse's number at the hospital, on Saturday I picked up someone at my gym, _Sunday_ , dog walker, Central Park, guess how we did it, and yesterday…"

"Oh, don't tell me you got the belt from _that_ ," Marshall says, shaking his head. "Ted said they were wearing pink floral leggings."

"No… just a little bit of Sandra in the sun," Barney smirks. "And today, that hooker at the bar!" He looks more like himself now; eager, proud, pleased, bragging about his dubious conquests as a three year old colors by his left elbow, and Marshall and Lily exchange a telepathically charged look. "It's awesome," Barney says, his voice dreamy. "I'm five for five right now. Can you believe I thought I might be a little rusty, getting back in the game after being benched so long? Two more and I'll have gotten a perfect week! Without even trying!"

"And there's Louisa," Lily says brightly. "Your new baby mama!"

Barney's expression falters, just for a second.

"You're not seriously getting back into the game," Marshall asks, "are you?"

"If he was, he'd have started before now," Lily says shrewdly, her eyes on Barney's face.

"That's a great horse, Daisy," Barney says, his attention turned to his niece's coloring.

He doesn't change the subject back as much as Lily presses him. Honestly, Marshall's glad to let it go.

 

 

**July 14th, 2016**

 

 

"C'mon, you loved this three days ago," Tracy says to Penny, in between airplane noises and swooping the spoon around in hopes of tricking her daughter into eating her sweet potato: Penny keeps her mouth clamped shut. "Yum, yummmy, mmmm," Tracy says a little desperately, pretending to take a bite of the baby food herself. Her acting doesn't seem to convince her daughter in the least, and, when Tracy's cell starts ringing, she's a little glad for the diversion. She leaves Penny in her high chair and scoops up her phone from the counter.

"Hello?"

"Tracy!" It's Barney. Tracy pops the spoonful of baby food into her own mouth, and turns away from Penny so her daughter won't see her disgusted wince at the taste. "Tracy, you and Ted have to come down to the bar, _right now_! We're celebrating!"

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen," she says, putting the spoon down on the counter.

"Why not?" Barney whines, his voice loud in Tracy's ear.

"Ted's sister is coming over for dinner, and —"

"Heather? Excellent. I'll be there in forty."

"Hah, yeah, no you won't," Tracy winces. Penny, in a mimicking stage, scrunches up her face in response to her mother's. All week Ted's been freaking out over the Barney situation, and the gang is evenly split over whether or not Barney and Heather have hooked up in the past. Tracy's not going to be the one to make this situation even worse… but that still come out a little harsher than she'd hoped.

But honestly, she doesn't want to hang out with him. Between Ted, worried sick ever since the incident in Barney's apartment last week, and Marshall and Lily, running interference in the bar… Tracy's sick of all of it. Why should they have to be the ones to look after him? He should be taking responsibility for himself. She's heard stories of how he used to be, but if this is the reality of it… she doesn't want anything to do with it. Doesn't he care what he's doing to his friends? To Ted? Calling twenty times a day wanting to go on adventures had been annoying, but the men were friends, fine. But making Ted stress like this… it's been distracting him for days. From Penny, from _her_. And Tracy doesn't like any of it.

"Uhmm, I haven't seen Heather in like, six years," Barney is saying, his voice high with sarcasm. "I'm not allowed to want to catch up?"

"Honestly? No, you're not," Tracy says.

"Okay, that's just mean," Barney sulks.

"Don't you think you've put Ted through enough this week?" she asks dryly, opening the fridge and taking out some apple juice, going to the cupboard and finding one of Penny's sippy cups.

"Right," Barney says. "This is all about Ted."

"That's not what I meant," she forces herself to say. "But you don't know how worried he is about you. He's not sleeping well… I mean, jeez, Barney," Tracy tilts her head, holding her phone in place between her shoulder and ear as she pours juice into the plastic cup, "I think he's more worried about this pregnancy thing than you are."

Barney's silent for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is flat, all modulation gone. "She's not pregnant."

Tracy almost knocks the cup over. "What?"

"She called me a few minutes ago. False alarm."

"Thank God!" Tracy exclaims, running her free hand over her face. "Wow, that's a relief!" No wonder Barney wanted to celebrate! Her whole body feels lighter, a knot loosening in her chest. Talk about a dodged bullet! He's right, they really should bust out some alcohol and toast to this —

Barney scoffs a laugh. "Yeah, I bet Ted'll be thrilled," he says, and hangs up before Tracy can formulate a response.

 

 

**July 15th, 2016**

 

 

Ted's only barely started the coffee maker when his phone starts ringing. He's expecting it to be Barney: after Tracy had told him the news yesterday, he'd tried calling Barney a few times, but he'd never picked up. Probably out partying, Ted had thought uneasily: something about the whole thing still felt off. But if Barney ever had a reason to party, this had to be it! He still planned on getting in touch with Louisa, Ted knew this mess wasn't even _close_ to resolved… but a bottomless pit now had a bottom. It could have been so much worse.

"Barney?" Ted asks, answering the phone, not checking the caller ID first.

"I'm afraid not," says the man on the other end, with a chuckle.

"Oh, sorry, I thought — uh, may I ask who is calling?" Ted stammers, pulling at the tie of his bathrobe. He pulls the phone away from his ear for half a second, to check the number, but it's an unknown caller.

"Agent Frank Ross," says the caller; "I'm with the FBI."

The pounding dread comes crashing back. Barney went off the radar, now the FBI is involved. What did he do? Pick someone up at the airport? Buy tickets with cash? Break in to somewhere, do something, get one of his ideas and — "I, uh," Ted stammers, "FBI?"

"Mr Stinson did tell you I'd be calling, didn't he?" Agent Ross asks.

"Um," says Ted, wondering if he's the accomplice to something. What did Barney do? What _now_? He dodged a pregnancy bullet so he went out and broke federal law? Cold sweat prickles at his arms and the back of his neck.

"Should I start from the beginning?" Ross asks, and to Ted's mild relief, he sounds a little amused.

"Yes, please," Ted says, leaning against the counter.

Ross does. Barney is, as Ted knows, an FBI informant, who, after fifteen years at AltruCell and then GNB, ousted himself as part of a takedown of several of AltruCell's presidents and CEO Greg Fisher. Since then, Barney has intermittently worked with Ross in helping prepare for the series of trials that follow such a takedown: there are criminal charges against Fisher and other AltruCell employees, and federal charges standing against them and the company as a whole. Greg Fisher's trial will be the first of potentially dozens, and is tentatively due to begin this coming November.

"So we'd like to speak to you," Ross finishes.

Ted feels a little dazed by all the information. Not much of it is new, exactly — but Barney barely even mentions it. Ted knew in the back of his mind that things like this must be happening… sure, Barney had been flying off to DC every couple of weeks for the past year or two, but he'd always come back talking about museums and the zoo, not working for the FBI.

Ted's mind makes a random connection: talking on his cell phone to Barney, Barney in DC. Ted had been on the train with Penny when Lily had called him, Robin, hospital, fainted — how Barney had hung up on Lily when she'd called. Ted's fingers had been clumsy as he tried to call Barney. Penny had been napping, her fingers clutched around her yellow blanket. He remembers that, Penny asleep on the train, looking at her as he talked to Barney, tried to keep Barney from checking out, untethering himself, tried to get him on a plane back to New York, back to Robin.

He'd sat on that sunny train and looked at Penny and tried not to think about what Barney had said, the reason for Robin's collapse. He hadn't known what to say: he'd kept asking Barney _are you there_? and Barney had kept saying _yeah_.

"Yeah," says Ted, on the phone with Ross. "Sure, of course, I'd be happy to help. What about?"

"You were the one who designed the new GNB building?" Ross begins.

 

 

**July 15th, 2016**

 

 

"You _bugged_ the GNB building!" Ted yells into the phone.

"Yeah, so?" Barney asks. "Jeez, Ted, watch the volume!"

"You bugged it? You had them hire me to design a building just so you could _bug_ it?"

"Please, I would have bugged it no matter who we hired," Barney says.

"And, and what? Did you get Marshall a job so that he could break the law for you, too?"

"First of all, _you_ didn't break the law, _I_ bugged a construction site that I was supervising on behalf of the Federal Government, and second of all: of course not. I got Marshall that job so we could hang out together…" he hesitates, actually _hesitates_ , and Ted's going to kill him. "…aaaand so I'd have easier access to legal files."

"I can't believe you! I can't fucking believe you —"

" _Really_? This is what you can't believe?" Barney asks impatiently.

"Oh, _trust_ me, there are a lot of things I can't believe," Ted says, his voice thick with sarcasm.

"Santa Claus, that's another—"

"Will you cut it out! This isn't a joke! This is—" Ted sits down heavily on one of the chairs at the kitchen table. His conversation with Ross, Tracy tip-toeing in and around he house, the note he'd scrawled for her — _sorry. Barney. Tell you later. –_ still lying on the counter, coffee forgotten and abandoned. "This is my _career_ , this was the biggest job of my _career_ , and you're telling me, the _FBI_ is telling me, it was all a trick!"

"The building still exists, Ted! We didn't pretend to let you build it!" His voice is high, curls with sarcasm, incredulity: it feels like nails driving into Ted's skin, his excuses, his treating it like a joke, the _highlight_ of Ted's _career_ , and he can imagine, just imagine Barney in his old office, dreaming it up. "You know I got you that job!"

"I thought it was a real job!"

"It was a real job! What was I supposed to do, _tell_ you? Hey, buddy, I'm working with the Feds and need to bug a building, wanna build one for me? Get your head out of your —"

"Yes!" Ted interrupts; Barney is silent for a moment, thrown. "Yes, that _is_ what you should have done! Normal people don't go — _best friends_ don't go fifteen goddamn years before telling people what they do for a living! Normal people care about and _trust_ people! Christ, normal people have _emotions_ , they don't just sic the FBI on their friends and —"

"Look, I _forgot_ , okay? I have a lot of stuff going on."

"You mean sleeping around?" Ted asks coldly.

He's seen it. Lily and Marshall have seen it. Hell, Barney tried to make a play for Heather again. But no one's said it yet, everyone's been hoping to be wrong, for it to go away, for it to _stop_. He's picking up college students and spandex-clad tourists and drug addicts, he just had a goddamn _pregnancy scare_ , and — it's wrong, Ted knows it is, but he doesn't know what to stop it.

But pretending it isn't there isn't helping.

"Perfect week," Barney says.

"What?"

Barney's silent for a couple of seconds. "Perfect week. I'm seven for seven, and I wasn't even trying. Awesome, right?" He waits, as if Ted's going to congratulate him, but Ted's mouth is hanging open. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't even know what to _think_. How could — _why_? How could this possibly seem like the answer, the right response to Louisa and Agent Ross and whatever the hell else is happening in Barney Stinson's messed up carnival ride of a life? "So, yeah, I've been busy," Barney says lightly.

A week. One week ago, Ted had been standing in Barney's apartment, watching blood well up in his hand, his eyes darting around at everything at once. How did they get here? How was that point A, and this point B? He remembers the picture on the fridge, the GNB magnet holding it in place. Robin, her mind far away from her wedding: Robin, away in Mexico, or Panama, or Suriname.

Something else no one has talked about.

Ted feels hollow, and sick, and old.

"Look, is this…" he falters. He doesn't know what to say, where to begin. Barney's never mentioned her once since the divorce, and Ted doesn't think anyone's asked him. Ted tells himself he was waiting for Barney to bring her up, waiting for Barney to make some emotional confession… but in his heart of hearts, he knows that's not it. Ted simply didn't want to ask. "This… doesn't have anything to do with Robin, does it?" he asks, carefully, the name feeling like a bomb in his hands.

He holds his breath, just for a second.

"Hey!" Barney says cheerfully. "I just had a great idea. I should have done this years ago — this is going to be amazing. Ready? You bracing yourself for something awesome?"

"Barney, come on," Ted says, disappointment crashing over him yet again. He'd really thought he was onto something.

Barney sighs into the phone; impatient, bored. "Right, back on me. How many days are there in July? 'Cause right now, here's what I'm thinking:"

And somehow Ted knows, because there's nothing left to surprise him, because it's the worst possible idea in the world:

"I'm thinking: Perfect _month."_

 

 

 

_When I look back on it, I get so_ mad _. At Barney, but also at myself. I knew, right then, in that moment, that things weren't okay. I'd known it for a week, I'd known it for_ months _, and I never said anything. I kept waiting for Barney to bring it up first, even though I also knew he wouldn't._

_It was just all so_ tiring _. I was trying to be there for Barney, but Barney… he's not exactly easy. He's not exactly nice. It was hard, trying to support him, trying to be available for him if he needed me, needed any of us, while he was running around pulling shit. Sleeping around. Lying. Dragging us into the Fisher trial._

_I know I should have understood what was going on. But I didn't. It was taking everything I had to keep forgiving him, day after day after day. I had Penny, and Tracy, and my job. Marshall and Lily had the kids and_ their _jobs. None of us had the time to follow him around. None of us had the energy. You_ know _what he's like, how he gets. He's not always the easiest person in the world to like._

_Barney eventually called me back, and set up my first meeting with Agent Ross in person. Marshall had one a couple of days later. He seemed… well, not apologetic; this is Barney Stinson we're talking about, but contrite. Which is sort of the same thing as apologetic, but has its own distinct meaning —_

_Sorry._

_When I called Barney on the 15th, that was when I should have said something. I know it. Hell, we should have had the intervention way back when he freaked out over Louisa. But we didn't. I knew he was going through some stuff — I even went online and read about manic episodes — but I didn't say anything._

_I really just thought it'd end on its own. I wanted it to._

_I know I could have done more. I wish I'd done more._

_But it was just so_ much _._

_And it wasn't even close to over._


	7. the perfect month

 

 

 

**July 17th, 2016**

 

 

 

Ted finishes telling the story of the Perfect Week, but has nothing else to say. He and Tracy sit beside one another in bed, not touching, and he watches out of the corner of his eye as Tracy takes a mechanical sip of her tea. "Perfect Week," she echoes.

"Perfect Month," he says.

Tracy's silent for a little bit.

"Last time, he thought he was going to lose his job," Ted says, to fill in the silence. "And, there's all this stuff  _now_ , with the FBI…"

Louisa still hangs heavily in his mind, unable to look at him in his office. But Barney's had pregnancy scares before. There's Frank Ross, too, AltruCell, GNB, and the FBI — stressors, problems, and Ted speaks Barney-ese well enough to make the tenuous connection: things Barney can't control, things that scare him, and then something he  _can_ do, a task he can meet and complete. A bigger challenge for a bigger stressor. But he  _imagines_ it, Barney, a forty year old man, chasing college girls, girls like Louisa, and feels only horrified revulsion. A tug of guilt.

He's leaving out Robin again. But Ted doesn't know, can't parse his  _own_ , let alone Barney's, feelings about it. He'd been upset, even a little angry, too, when Robin had taken off without a word or backwards glance. He understands completely that she wouldn't want to talk to Barney… but what about her other friends? What about  _him_? Lily's said she's been in sporadic Skype contact with Robin, but Ted knew her first, okay,  _loved_ her first, and even if it's not at all like that anymore, doesn't that count for something?

Had Barney chosen to vent to him about Robin, were Barney upset about Robin, Ted could understand it. But if he were, why would he be sleeping around like this? Why would he deny it? Why would he simply be acting like a grosser, worse version of himself?

"So this is his version of a midlife crisis?" Tracy asks, after a few minutes of contemplative silence.

Ted sighs. "I think so."

"What happened last time?"

Ted thinks back. "He… had his week. And then he moved on to the next thing, I guess." They'd cheered for him, he remembers. But it was different; they were younger. He doesn't tell Tracy. "It was actually right around the time I went out with Cindy," he says, his mind skittering to something safer.

Tracy doesn't take the bait. "So you want to just let him have his month and be done with it?" she asks shrewdly.

She's kind of giving him her  _I know you, Ted Mosby_ face, so he takes a deep breath and admits it. "Obviously I don't  _want_ to. But what else can I do?"

One of the things Ted loves about Tracy is that she always knows, _gets_ , people, always has an idea or an answer. But she only bites her lip and stares at her mug. "Stop him," she says, and he can tell she has no more idea than he does as to how.

Ted looks down at his hands, folded over the blanket. "I don't suppose you have another big heartwarming speech to give him?" he asks, meaning for it to be kind of a joke.

"Isn't that kinda more your job?" she shoots back, not really smiling.

Perfect Week, Perfect Month. It had only been a few weeks — months? — after Barney's breakup with Robin back then, too. He's leaving her out again. Maybe this  _is_ Barney's way of coping with a breakup, maybe it'll work for him, maybe in some awful, twisted way…

"Yeah," Ted says. "I guess it is."

 

 

 

**July 20th, 2016**

 

 

 

Marshall wrestles the folding stroller, diaper bag, and his own briefcase down the stairs with one hand, his other holding Daisy's. The little girl picks her way down the building's front steps, and Marshall dreams for the thousandth time of living in a house without ten million (approximate) steep, concrete steps between the door and the sidewalk. They've done this hundreds of times, and he's always worried she'll fall. "Marvin!" he yells, as his son races down the steps at breakneck speed.

Marvin pauses on the sidewalk, points towards the bar. "It's Uncle Barney!"

" _Marv_!" Marshall calls again, as Marvin vanishes around the steps and out of his line of sight; he hurries down the rest of the steps as fast as he can with Daisy.

"It's cool!" calls Barney from around the corner, and Marshall relaxes slightly. Sensing it's okay, Daisy wriggles her hand free of his and runs after her brother: when Marshall finishes maneuvering his items down the stairs, he sees Barney holding Daisy, his free hand on Marvin's head… and the woman he had just been talking to.

She looks like the last time she slept was one drug habit and two kids ago. "Put out your cigarette," Barney hisses at her, making a frantic gesture.

"Hi," Marshall says, trying to smile.

"Hey, Marsh, this is…"

"Stacy," says the woman. She drags on her cigarette.

"Stacy," says Barney. He looks like he hasn't slept either. He smells like an ashtray. He looks uncomfortable, nervous. "Stace, this is Marshall, and Marv, and Daisy-day…"

It's eight in the morning.

 

 

 

**July 21st, 2016**

 

 

 

On Thursday, Ted meets with the FBI about Barney's case and the GNB building. He's still angry about it all; how used he feels; that Barney hadn't given him the GNB design project because they're friends or that Barney thought he was the best architect for the job, but because he was the architect Barney  _knew_. He tries not to think of it like that, but it's not easy.

The meeting itself goes okay, not that Ted has much of a frame of reference for these things: he meets Frank Ross and some lawyers and Barney. Barney flirts with his publicist the entire time; subtly, but Ted knows the signs. Ted tries to ignore it. He goes over some documents and contracts with Ross, struggles to remember some dates and meetings from years ago, and that's pretty much it.

He and Barney head out together after. Ted kinda wants to head home, vent a little to Tracy, still sore about the building, but Barney follows him down the steps, his shoes clicking loudly against the pavement. "Hey, dude, wait up!" he says, falling into step with Ted. Ted doesn't immediately reply. "C'mon, dude. It wasn't that bad. I told you it'd be cool. You're totally still a 'real architect' or whatever the hell —"

"Dude," Ted says. He isn't really sure what he intends to say. He feels sick inside,  _used_ , but he knows that Barney had good intentions, and it's just all a mess in his head. "I'm still kinda pissed off about this, okay? Just don't."

Barney drops it. "Wanna get a drink?"

He sighs. "Sure."

They don't go to MacLaren's; they find a place on Lafayette and order drinks at the bar. It's a sport's bar, but it's pretty early in the evening and not much of a crowd. Ted asks Barney a little about the case; Barney is vague, but Ted isn't sure if he's being secretive or just doesn't care too much about the legal details. The trial is going forward; there's a few evidentiary hearings and witness lists to go through; Barney's role in all of this is a little unclear.

"So, you're, what, just hanging around, waiting for the trial?" Ted asks, because the more he thinks about it, the less sure he is.

"Not just me," Barney says. "You're on the witness list now, too."

"I'm not going to be called, am I?" he asks.

Barney shrugs. "Dude, no clue."

"Seriously? It's your case, isn't it?"

"Ted, please," Barney says, swirling the contents of his glass. "It's more than just 'my case.' This case  _is_  me. I put it all together, me. Heroically, tragically —"

"Tragically?"

"Dramatically?"

Ted kinda smiles into his beer. "Dramatically for sure. But you're a witness too, right?"

"Yeah," Barney says. "So anyway, it was just me and Greg, mano-a-mano, except he totally had  _no idea_ I was plotting his demise the whole —" He cuts himself off mid-sentence to nod and grin at a passing woman. "Yeah."

"Seriously?" Ted asks, suddenly kind of annoyed again.

"What?"

"You spent  _all morning_ hitting on your publicist, which, by the way,  _bad idea_ , and now you're trying to pick up some random chick?" Ted says the last part in a low voice.

Barney doesn't deny it. "So what if I am? This Perfect Month ain't going to do  _itself_."

"This 'perfect month' is disgusting," Ted says.

"Whatever," Barney scoffs. "Are we gonna hang out, or do you need to go home and change your tampon?"

He's been getting meaner lately, in little bits. Ted knows he should push it, but he doesn't.

They change the subject, and finish their drinks.

 

 

 

**July 23rd, 2016**

 

 

 

On Tuesday, Marshall swings by the Duane Reade near their apartment to pick up pre-natal meds. He spots Barney leaning against a cosmetics display, talking to a woman with heavy eyeliner and multiple piercings.

He doesn't know what Barney is doing here; he doesn't know what he should say. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, refills Lily's prescription, and leaves without saying anything. He's not sure Barney noticed him; he hopes not.

He tells Lily later, and Lily tells Tracy over the phone.

"This is like the world's grossest game of 'Clue,'" Tracy says. She sighs. "Don't tell Ted about this."

"Ted should know about this," Lily says.

"He's been obsessing over Barney pretty much non-stop," Tracy says. She sighs. "This has to stop."

"Oh, trust me, I'm with you there," Lily says, her voice flat and dangerous. "How's Louisa doing?"

"I don't know," says Tracy. "She dropped Ted's class."

The women are silent for a moment. "Have you seen Barney recently?" Lily asks.

"I talked to him like a week ago? But I haven't been to the city in a while." Tracy pauses. "I don't want to see him… like this." She takes in a quick breath. "I mean… Ted told me stories, but, if this is seriously what he's  _like_ … you know?"

"This is worse than he used to be," Lily says. "A little bit worse."

"It just, it's  _disgusting_ ," Tracy says, building up some nerve as she speaks. "It's killing Ted, it's all any of us are even talking about any more, how Barney's just — having some kind of sleazy mid-life crisis, and I seriously  _don't_ like it. I don't like him. I mean — you know what I mean. Not like this. Not  _this_ guy. Sure, the first time we met, he tried to pick me up, but, I don't know. Somehow that was kind of cute? And this? Not even a little bit."

Lily doesn't reply.

"Lil? God, sorry for going off on you," Tracy says.

"No, it's okay," Lily says.

"I just, whenever Ted brings him up — I can't say anything, Ted just wants to talk about how there's a  _reason_ and Barney will snap out of it and he keeps trying to defend him, and that's sweet, it's great, I love that Ted cares so much, but —" Tracy laughs shakily, "you can't help people who don't wanna be helped, you know?"

"I know," says Lily, her voice flat. "Trust me, I know."

 

 

 

**July 25th, 2016**

 

 

 

Soccer mom in a sweatshirt and jeans; the deli across the street from the foundation Tracy works for.

She sees him through the window; keeps walking.

 

 

 

**July 27th, 2016**

 

 

 

Ted answers the phone in the middle of the night. "Ted, where are you!" Barney yells. He hears music in the background; loud and thudding.

"I'm in  _bed_ ," he groans. "I'm trying to sleep."

"It isn't even midnight. On a  _Saturday_."

"I have a kid," Ted says. "I'm tired."

Barney doesn't seem to have an immediate retort, but rallies. "Well, check it! I —" He launches into his story, but Ted pulls the phone away from his ear, Tracy's hand on his elbow. She struggles to sit up, tangled in their sheets, and looks at him. He looks back. She doesn't say anything, not aloud, but she doesn't have to. The quiet of their bedroom, the whoosh of the ceiling fan, Tracy lit faintly by street lamps outside, and the tinny sound of club music, Barney's excited voice on the phone.

 _C'mon_ , Tracy is telling him.

Ted puts the phone back to his ear. "Look, buddy, I can't go out tonight. I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

He hangs up.

 

 

 

**July 30th**

 

 

 

Lily is barely even surprised when Barney is at her and Marshall's dry cleaner's on Monday. "Okay, are you stalking us, or what?" she asks, throwing two of Marshall's suits on the counter, interrupting Barney's conversation with the lady behind it.

"This is… my dry cleaner's," Barney lies unconvincingly, unable to keep from looking a little horrified by the prospect of getting his clothes laundered across the street from a McDonald's.

The clerk seems offended; takes Lily's suits. "What's the deal, Stinson?" she asks, impatient and running on a low level cocktail of pregnancy and annoyance. The dry clean clerk had to be in her  _sixties_. Was Barney just throwing himself at anyone who'd take him?

She had an unhappy feeling the answer was yes.

"I… was in the neighborhood," Barney says, straightening out his suit.

"Just like you were in the neighborhood when Marshall saw you at the pharmacy? Or when Tracy saw you at work? Or —"

"Okay," Barney says, grabbing Lily by the elbow and trying to steer her away from the counter; she shakes him off and glares and he backs away.

"If this is some gross way of trying to get attention," she says.

"It's not, okay?" Barney rolls his eyes and looks convincingly incredulous, but Lily continues on:

"Then it's working."

Barney looks taken aback; confused.

Lily throws her hands up, spreads them. "Congrats, Barney! You've got our attention. Ted's going gray, Tracy is madder than I've  _ever_ seen her, and my poor Marshmallow is beating himself up about ignoring your cries for help. You're the center of attention right now!" She doesn't try to lower her voice; hide her frustration, her anger; that they're standing in a  _dry cleaner's_ and its day 23 of 30 in the world's most disgusting challenge, and that Lily  _knows_ this, that they  _all_ know it, and if she could be hitting him right now, she would be. She's still thinking about it. "So what's the next step?"

He's still taken aback, and Lily takes a mean pleasure in seeing it. "Next step?"

The clerk comes back to the counter; Lily finishes her transaction, takes her ticket, enjoys seeing Barney sweat. He tries to slide for the door; she follows him out. It wouldn't be hard for Barney to lose her; Lily's short and five months pregnant, but he lets her keep pace. Lily doesn't know where they're headed; she follows Barney down the block, across the street, down 71st.

"You don't have a plan, do you?" she asks, when Barney isn't forthcoming.

"Why do I need a plan?" he asks. He sounds a little tense, annoyed, and Lily's glad of it. "Maybe I'm doing this for fun."

She wants to ask how this is fun, how any of this is fun, but she can sense the sarcastic retort and bites her tongue. There are a  _lot_ of things she wants to know, wants the answer to. Is he insane? Why is he doing this? Does he care about any of them, how it's affecting them? About  _Ted_? About poor Louisa, lost in the chaos?

"You're telling me you're making us all miserable for fun?" Lily asks, daring him to say yes.

"No — it —" Barney doesn't know what to say. "C'mon, Lil," he says, trying to be charming now, "You guys don't have to worry about  _me_ , out on the  _streets_ , being  _awesome_."

"Barney, you're the only one of us I  _do_ worry about," she says. She worries about Ted's sanity, and Tracy's career and of course she hopes their relationship stays great and little Penny stays healthy and they finally get around to getting married someday; she worries constantly about Marvin (will he love preschool?) and Daisy (she isn't talking as much as she should at her age) and this new baby and Marshall, who is trying  _so hard_ to love his horrible job.

She worries about Robin, who left Ted's house that day and might as well have vanished off the face of the earth, who sends her one-line messages on Skype at odd hours of the day and night, Robin, her  _best friend_ , who doesn't seem to care about any of them anymore.

But Lily knows — Lily hopes — that they'll all be fine. That if Robin has stopped caring, that's her problem. That Marshall will do wonderfully at his shitty job. That Ted and Tracy are perfect and happy together.

Barney's the only one she looks at and just doesn't  _know_.

The day is hot and humid, the streets crowded and smelly. They're headed towards the park. Lily bites her tongue to keep the questions down, keep from shouting at him,  _meddling_. She isn't even sure what she's doing, following him: her back hurts, and she's sweaty and hot. The baby hasn't stopped moving in about three hours, and she kind of wishes it'd take a nap, and as the Dakota comes into sight, she realizes Barney has no reply to give her.

Lily focuses on the greenery of Central Park. "Sometimes I just imagine getting some call in the middle of the night and…" And he's in trouble. Jail.

Hurt, dead.

It's not just pregnancy hormones that make her sniffle.

"Hey," he says. "I'm fine."

They cross the street, head into the shade of the park. This time, Lily takes the lead, steers them to a bench. He follows, sits beside her. She puts a hand on her belly. "Are you?" she asks him.

"Supa-fine," he says immediately.

"No," says Lily. It's in asking that she realizes, the one thing, the one  _big_ thing, she hasn't done. None of them have done. "How are you feeling?"

He hesitates; looking for a trap. "About what?"

She forces herself to shrug. "Just…" About the trial. About Ted's stress levels, about how mad Tracy is at him, about working for the FBI, about his job, about Greg Fisher, about Robin.

About Robin, who won't return Lily's calls, who hasn't looked back once, who abandoned all of them like they were nothing, like ten years of friendship was nothing, who earlier this year told Lily she and Barney were doing great, who earlier this year announced their divorce. Robin, who Barney hasn't mentioned once.

Maybe it was a mutual breakup; maybe years of sexual tension and the looks they'd give when they thought no one noticed had just faded into nothing; maybe Lily had been wrong about their love and depth of feelings — but Robin just left, without a word, and if he hated it so much, wouldn't Barney have thrown a party to celebrate being single?

She remembers — not the last time, one of the last times, before Barney and Robin had left for Argentina, in the hotel in Vermont. Robin telling her they were good. That Barney was planning some kind of surprise for her. That they were fine, and happy; they'd left dinner early, the two of them, and Lily had believed it.

Lily wants to ask him about Robin, the second forbidden topic around the gang.

She wants to ask him about the baby; the third.

But she can see Barney, imagine him jumping up and running, changing the subject, chickening out the way he always has, always does, and she wants to push him, set him down in front of a phone or computer, but she doesn't want one perfect month to become two.

"Just…" she says again, takes a deep breath. "How are you?" Nonchalant. Casual.

He looks at her blankly, waiting for a trap or push. "I'm okay," he says, finally.

"How's your hand?"

"I got the stitches out last week," he says, turning his palm. She sees the healing cut, the paler, pinker skin around it. He looks at her; expecting her to push.

She doesn't.

"So you're feeling better?"

"Yeah," he says. "I'm feeling okay."

It's hard, not saying anything more.

"How's the baby?" he asks. It's the first time in a long time, she thinks, that he's asked that kind of question.

"The bastard won't stop moving, he's wearing me out," she says.

"It's a boy?"

"We don't know," she says. "I think we're gonna let it be a surprise. Marshall wants another boy."

"You should start a pool."

"On the kid's gender?"

He nods. "I bet you six hundred dollars that it's a girl," Barney announces grandly, with some of his usual vigor.

"Six dollars even," she counters.

"Ten."

"Done."

They shake on it, and he's smiling now.

They chat for a little while, about normal things, easy things, and Lily doesn't push and doesn't ask and doesn't lecture, and Barney doesn't check out any of the women who pass in front of them. After a while, Lily has to go get Marvin from daycare; Barney stands with her.

"Hey," he says, after they've said their goodbyes.

Lily turns back, hoping.

He sticks his hands in his pockets. "So, you know. There's a witness hearing I'm supposed to go to on Wednesday. An AltruCell exec and a couple defense people."

She waits, but he just kinda stands there. "Do you want me to come?" Lily asks.

He nods quickly, then shrugs. "Whatever. It ain't a thing."

She smiles. "Yeah," says Lily, "I'll be there."

 

 

 

**August 3rd, 2016**

 

 

 

Ted rushes up the courthouse steps, late for the hearing. There had been traffic, and he'd, well, he'd argued with Tracy about it; Lily had called and said she was going to be there, so did Ted really have to? He hadn't decided until that morning.

It stung, honestly: that for the first time, Barney would reach out for someone, and it wouldn't be Ted. Isn't Ted his best friend? Hasn't Ted always been there for Barney?

Except that wasn't true, not lately. He'd blown him off, been impatient, annoyed… and that was what made the decision for him, and brought him to the courthouse this morning.

There's not a big crowd, either inside or outside the courthouse, and once he's through security, Ted looks around, trying to figure out where Barney's hearing is being held: he doesn't see any signs, so he looks for a guard or clerk to ask.

He spots a woman standing nearby. He's not sure if she's a lawyer or what, but she doesn't seem to be doing anything, and Ted doesn't think he'd be interrupting anything if he approaches. "Excuse me," he says. She looks up at him, then beside her, like there's someone else he could be asking. "You wouldn't happen to know where the, uh, Greg Fisher hearing is, would you?" Ted asks.

The woman points. "Right there," she says. She brushes a strand of blonde hair over her shoulder. "Are you with the defense?"

"The prosecution," Ted corrects, and then has to correct himself. "Well, I'm a friend of  _one_  of the prosecution. I'm a friend of Barney Stinson… most of the time," he adds, under his breath.

She chuckles at his unintended joke, and he smiles. "Are you also—"

The door she pointed at opens, and a guard steps out. "Ms Lowe?" He calls.

She stands up. "Gotta run," she says, smiling.

"Thanks for your help," Ted calls after her. She hurries to the courtroom, and it strikes Ted that he might as well follow her in. The guard stops him at the door; with court already underway, the guard wants to know if he's a witness or member of the public.

"Ted Mosby," he says. "Member of the public. I'm a friend of Mr Stinson's, I'm here to support him," Ted says, feeling a little better about himself as he does.

"Sorry, Mr Mosby," the guard says, consulting a list. "I have you on the list as a potential witness. You'll have to wait outside in case you're called."

Well, crap.

Ted briefly considers trying to argue his case, but gives up before he begins. Before he can make his way over to a bench to wait it out, the courtroom door opens again. He turns automatically.

It's Barney, being led by the arm by Agent Ross out of the courtroom. He struggles; the FBI agent doesn't let him break free. When they're past the checkpoint, Ross releases Barney; he takes a big step away and straightens his jacket in a huff. "I'm fine!" he says.

"I don't care  _how_ you feel," Ross replies. They're speaking in low voices; Ted automatically drifts closer. The courtroom door opens again; Lily appears, looking confused. "You're not going back in there."

"But I  _wanna_ ," Barney insists.

"Hey, what just happened?" Lily asks the two of them. "Hi, Ted," she adds.

Ross sighs heavily. "Mr Stinson is a witness in this case… just as Mr Mosby is," he adds, in acknowledgement of Ted's arrival. "He is to have no contact with this part of proceedings."

"That's  _stupid_ ," Barney whines. He moves closer to Lily, and Ted frowns at him.

He looks over at Agent Ross. "I thought Barney was supposed to be here?"

Ross gives him a level look. "In the courthouse? Yes. Court room? Absolutely not."

"I want to go back in there," Barney says again.

"No," says Ross. The men look at one another, and to Ted's mild surprise, Barney folds without another word: turns away, takes several steps down the hall. He runs his hand over his face.

"Excuse me," Ross tells Ted and Lily; they exchange a look as he heads back into court.

Barney is still pacing, halfway down the hall now. "What was that?" Ted asks.

Lily shakes her head. "I don't know. I was a few rows back," she says in a low voice. "The lawyers were having a bench conference before calling the next witness, and Barney… suddenly got really worked up. While the lawyers were up there, Barney kept leaning over to Agent Ross. The judge told him to cut it out, and Ross just kinda dragged him out here."

They look over at Barney, now heading back to them. His expression is cloudy, and Ted is surprised to see it — the glassiness in his eyes, the tightness of his jaw, the redness of his face. He looks angry. Anxious. "Dude, what's going on?"

"I'm taking off," Barney says, not even looking at Ted.

"You can't just take off," he says. He looks at Lily.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" she asks him.

He gives her a long look. "Yeah, I gotta go," he says, already brushing past them towards the door.

Ted immediately starts to follow, but Lily reaches out, stops him.

"Maybe we should give him some space," she says.

" _Seriously_?" Lily bites her lip, but Barney has enough of a headway that he's already almost at the door. "What just happened?" Ted asks again.

"I don't know," Lily says, her voice high with frustration. He steers her over to a nearby bench with her pregnancy in mind, and she sits down heavily. "I'm trying to give him some space and he was doing  _really well_ , but I don't have a clue what set him off this time."

It's not like he doesn't believe her, but this whole thing is  _weird_. Ted looks down at his hands for a moment, but even when he thinks about it… he has no idea. "So," he says, trying to make a joke of it, "your new strategy is to  _not_ interfere in people's lives? How's that going for you?"

"He really was doing better these past couple of days," Lily says, not taking the joke.

"He's been having an insane midlife crisis for  _weeks_ ," Ted corrects.

"That's not true," Lily says.

"Since when have you been sticking up for him?" Ted asks.

"Don't get me wrong, I think he's a huge assface," she says matter-of-factly.

He laughs. "So what do you mean?"

"He's like a five year old," she says. Ted snorts. "If all you do is tell him  _no, you're wrong_ , you're not solving the problem. You have to listen, and help them communicate with you without jumping to judgement. When kids act out, it's for a reason they don't know how to express with their words."

"And that reason is his midlife crisis?" he guesses.

Lily sighs. "Maybe a little more like his wife left him less than a year after they lost their baby."

Any joke about Barney and preschool die before Ted can even make them.

This isn't what Ted wants to talk about.

They don't talk about that. No one talks about it, no one thinks about it. Robin, Robin leaving, Robin god-knows-where, and Barney, smiling and laughing and sleeping with anyone that moves. It's so easy to divide them, to put Robin out of mind and think of Barney as the sleazy asshole he's always been; to forget about those hours Ted sat on the train, on the phone, in the hospital, listening to Robin's doctor tell him about her miscarriages.

Ted, and not Barney, because Barney had fled.

And after that they'd said they were fine, that they'd never wanted kids, but there'd been something off, even Ted could see it, Robin flipping from emotion to emotion, Barney hyper, way more than usual, and then just like that, Robin had been gone and Barney had been the way he'd always been, the way he always is, and no one had said anything, and no one had done anything, and Ted had told himself he was waiting for Barney to want to open up, and Ted — all of them — had known that Barney never would.

He doesn't know, he honestly doesn't know, what Barney must think of all this. Losing Robin must hurt,  _does_ hurt, Ted knows as a friend and remembers as an ex and can get it, and even though Barney hasn't been convincingly heart-broken — and then the miscarriage, the hospital, the baby. Foetus.  _She's ten weeks pregnant_ , Barney had said.

 _We weren't going to keep it anyway_ , Barney had said.

And then, much more recently, wild-eyed in his apartment:  _I can't have a kid_.

Because he had never wanted one, or because he and Robin…

He can't imagine, can't even begin to let himself consider if it were him. If it were Tracy. If they'd tried for another child, and — He can't form the sentence in his mind.

"Come on," Ted says weakly, hoping to convince himself. "She didn't — It was a mutual split, right? Barney  _and_ Robin said they were fine, that they were fine with it."

"You can't believe that," Lily says reproachfully. "It's barely been two months."

Two months. It had seemed longer, like something that must have occurred long ago. Two months. But they'd barely seen Barney or Robin before — they'd been out of the country since February, and before that, everyone had given them space to recover… deep down, Ted always suspected they wouldn't last, but that doesn't mean he likes this,  _wants_  this. But he had wanted to pretend everything was fine. That it was the past, gone and forgotten.

"Well," he says, because he doesn't know what to say. "I guess Barney officially wins the Robin Scherbatsky Breakup Freakout stakes."

"You and your tramp stamp will forever remain in our hearts," Lily says. Neither of them laugh.

"What do we do?" Ted asks, after a while.

"I don't know," Lily says. "He's shutting down whenever he feels like he's being pushed. I'm trying to… not push."

"So what, we just let him do his perfect month bullshit?" Ted asks. He feels cold with sympathy; regret; but that's still stupid, still  _awful_ , still disgusting and horrific. He tried to apologize to Louisa, and she still dropped all his classes, and he doesn't think he can contact her again.

"I don't know," Lily says again, her voice going high. "Maybe if he feels more comfortable, he'll open up."

"Maybe," says Ted, and tries to believe it.

 

 

 

**August 4th, 2016.**

 

 

 

He gets the call at 2:17 AM. He doesn't check the call ID; who else would be on the other end? "Yeah?" he whispers into the receiver, trying to be quiet. Tracy stirs beside him; snores softly in her sleep.

There's an odd sound on the other end, a steady loud hissing. Ted can't place it, and it worries him. "Barney?" Tinny hissing. "Are you there?"

He's already swinging his legs out of the bed. This isn't a club, isn't Barney trying to call him out to some kind of party or distraction, this is Barney running his hand over his face and leaving court, Lily saying the things none of them ever mention.

At last, Barney speaks. "I can't make it stop."

His voice is hollow and flat and strange and wrong, shaky and uncertain, and there's only a handful of times Ted has ever heard him like this, and one was less than a week ago. "What's going on?" He tugs on a discarded blazer one handed, over his tee-shirt. "Where are you?"

There's a rhythm to the background noise; three beats, shah-shah-shah. "Home," Barney says after a pause that's too long, too long for a one word response, and Ted doesn't know what it is, but it's got to be bad.

"I'll be right there, buddy," he says. "Don't do anything crazy. Hang tight."

He scrawls Tracy some form of note and takes the car, shoving sandals on his feet. Middle of the night, traffic's not bad in White Plains; he makes good time into the city, spends the half hour cursing and clenching at the steering wheel, all of Lily's worries seeming prophetic, all of Tracy's impatience and his own wavering seeming idiotic and heartless. There's a part of him that worries this is all some kind of joke, that Barney's really fine, making him rush into Manhattan at three in the morning just to say  _I told you_ , and Ted hates himself for suspecting a trick and hopes, at the same time, that it is.

He remembers getting that first emergency contact call.

He remembers the second, years ago, years later,  _your friend has been fished out of the Hudson_.

Barney doesn't have a great track record with self preservation, with thinking before he acts,  _reacts_ , jumps into rivers or in front of buses or into other forms of trouble, taking dares or challenges, going days without sleep and drinking more than he can handle, lacking impulse control or an off switch or someone to tell him stop.

Ted tries to be that person,  _tried_ to be that person, and maybe Robin took over for a while, and maybe this is all nothing, or maybe he's jumped in over his head again.

He's just crossing into Manhattan when his phone lights up in the passenger seat; Tracy calling. He ignores it.

Ted finds a parking spot near Barney's building, hurries up to his floor, his apartment. He pounds on the door with an open hand, heedless of any neighbors. He's expecting Barney to answer the door just fine; he's expecting to need his spare key and see — what? Ted's sandal sinks into the carpet outside the door: it's wet.

 _Wet_? He hears the hissing, through the door, and it all comes together.

Ted uses his spare key.

The fire sprinklers are running in Barney's apartment, four cones of water pouring down in the kitchen, the living room, the hall. Everything is soaking wet; the new sofa, the leather chairs are waterlogged, rivulets of water pour over the stormtrooper, puddles form and waterfall off the tables and counters. The carpet is dark with water; a pool of water covers the floor, and the sprinklers keep raining down, splashing and hissing and cold. Ted can't move from the hall for a moment, not understanding what he's looking at, empty cups on the coffee table spilling over with water. The room is cool and wet, but a muggy hot draft pushes in the apartment from outside: the balcony doors are wide open.

Ted crosses the room to the balcony. The ten steps leave his feet wet and shirt sticking to his neck; water running down his face.

Barney's sitting on the floor of the balcony, an empty glass and pack of cigarettes between his splayed legs. He has another in his mouth, his fingers shakily holding it in place as he drags. He doesn't appear to be bleeding, or hurt: if he's drunk or drugged, it's not immediately visible. He looks up, guiltily, at Ted, and Ted waits to feel angry, outraged, something.

He doesn't.

He doesn't feel anything. And Ted doesn't know if he's just lost his capacity to feel in the miles between White Plains and the Upper East Side, or if Barney has just finally bled every last drop of his empathy away.

He's not angry. He's not disappointed. He looks down at Barney, hunched in the corner of a balcony, flooding his apartment and ruining everything inside, and Ted doesn't know what he feels.

"How do you turn it off?" he asks.

Barney looks at him hopelessly; uncertain and confused, his fingers trembling around the cigarette. Ted thought he stopped smoking back in February. He thought Robin had made him quit the previous fall.

"I don't…" Light pours onto them from inside, wet, wavy light, and Barney's pupils are huge and his skin is pale. His hair is still wet from the storm; his suit clings damply to his skin. "I don't know?"

"You've gotta have some fancy code word or switch," Ted says.

Barney shakes his head.

Ted takes a deep breath and heads back inside, soaking himself through as he crosses the living room to a supply closet. He remembers seeing a circuit box in there; the computer that controls Barney's sleazier gadgets. There's water half an inch deep on the floor, but no sprinklers in the closet; Ted scans the various switches and panels.

It turns out there's one labelled  _sprinklers_. Ted turns it off, and the whirring immediately halts.

As simple as that.

A two second fix.

Ted stands there for a minute, waits to feel something. Anger. Some form of humiliation, that he'd drag himself out of bed at this time of night because Barney forgot how to flip a switch; some form of frustration at himself, for dropping everything to fix his friend's worst problems.

But he doesn't.

It's not like Barney to forget something like that.

Ted splashes across the living room. Barney hasn't moved. He detours into the master bedroom — soaked — and the bathroom — dry — and grabs all the towels he can carry, drapes a bathrobe over his shoulders. His hair sticks to his forehead, his sandals are soaked through. Ted takes the whole pile out to the balcony, the still city air, the lingering summer heat. He drops them all on the ground, drapes a towel over his neck.

Barney hasn't moved. The cigarette has burned itself out in his hand, and his eyes are dark and heavy.

"Here," says Ted, throwing a towel at him. It bounces against Barney's arm, falls. "You're gonna get sick, dude," he says. He feels almost like he's looking after Penny when he picks the towel back up for him, wraps it over his friend's shoulders for him.

"I'm fine," Barney says. His voice is off, he sounds distracted: not in his usual dreamy  _I haven't listened to a word you're saying_ manner, but like he's barely present. Not present at all.

"How did you manage to set off all your sprinklers?" he asks.

"I don't remember," Barney says vaguely.

Ted remembers Lily's advice. "How are you feeling?" he asks, and it feels like a weird question, because it's not the sort of thing they usually ask one another.

Barney doesn't bother to answer.

Ted leans against the glass of the balcony window, toweling his hair, trying to strategize about the mess behind him. They'll have to dry everything somehow. Pay for all the water damager. Replace furniture and flooring. Barney owns the apartment outright, doesn't he?

It's an exhausting, insurmountable mess. Ted waits to feel angry. Thinks about Penny, and Tracy, and imagines them both gone by this time next year.

"Are you mad at me?" Barney asks.

"I don't know," Ted admits. "Are you drunk? Or high?"

Barney seems to remember his cigarette; tries to take a drag before realize it's burnt out.

"But I came," Ted says.

Barney doesn't say anything.

"Are you okay?" Ted asks.

Barney looks at the railing.

Water drips behind them, off of counters and tables and books and stereos and swords and cups and plates and sinks and chairs and books. Ted tries to guess what is ruined, what might possibly be saved. Paper can't be salvaged, fabric will be destroyed, walls and floors need replaced. Barney has posters but not many pictures; any he has, the others probably have copies of. Hopefully his wardrobe didn't have sprinklers; Ted isn't sure what other keepsakes he owned.

He thinks of the picture he'd seen on the fridge, the only clue Barney still remembered Robin had been part of his life; had existed at all, a picture of her looking away from him, out the door, wistful and quiet on her own wedding day. It's probably destroyed, that photo, soaked and ruined beyond salvation, and Robin somewhere in South America, unable to be touched.

Everything important can be replaced.

"Can you afford to hire someone to clean up for you?" Ted asks.

"Is it bad?" Barney asks; turns around for the first time to look at his apartment. Ted watches his face, but his expression doesn't change, not even in momentary surprise. He closes his eyes. He looks tired. He looks  _old_.

"You can't go on like this," Ted says, looking him in the face, towels draped around all their shoulders, the echoes of traffic rising all around them.

Barney sits and looks into his home.

"I mean it," Ted says. "Flipping between hyper and partying and sleeping around and freaking out and not telling anyone how or why. This is the second time you've trashed your apartment in as many weeks. It has to stop."

He pauses for a reaction, but Barney doesn't give him one.

"It's not healthy. I don't even think you're enjoying it. Lily says we need to give you space and lay off the pressure, but we're all so afraid of hurting you that all we do is say  _hi, Barney_  instead of slapping you across the face."

Nothing.

"I'm not going to do that anymore," Ted says. Water drips down inside of the windows. "I'm not going to let you do whatever you want and pretend they're not cries for help. And in return, you're not going to act crazy."

Nothing.

"You're not going to have a perfect month. You're not going to call me at midnight wanting to party. You're not going to pick up girls at our jobs and delis and laundromats, hoping someone will call you on it. You're going to act like a grown up, and we're going to help you clean this place up, and when I ask you if you're okay, I'm not going to be scared you're having a manic episode."

"And we're going to sit with you in court and help you out and we're  _not_ going to abandon you, not ever," Ted says, "but you need to stop  _acting_ like this."

Nothing.

"Okay?" He licks his lips. "Can we swing that?"

Barney closes his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "Sure."

 

 

 

**White Plains, New York.**

**Tuesday, October 18th, 2016.**

 

 

 

_I guess you know the rest._

_The next day, we all helped Barney clean up his apartment. Lily and Marshall helped him replace his furniture; he stayed here with Tracy and Penny and I for a couple of days while his floors were being replaced. He was pretty quiet while he was here: great with Penny, but not up to his usual standard._

_And, well, Tracy's right, kinda. He never really_ got  _loud again. He's been kind of quiet and weird ever since, I guess. Annoyed at me, annoyed at Lily and Marshall, annoyed at Trace. I think he felt abandoned, that it took us so long to realize he needed us, and that, and stress of the trial… I don't know. I guess we kind of deserved it._

_As far as we can tell, he hasn't been sleeping around, even hitting on anyone, since that night. If he is, he's gotten much more discreet; I haven't asked. I don't think any of us really want to know._

_A week or two later the papers started to talk about how sleazy he is. I don't think it was caused by anything he did, thank God, so we're lucky he stopped_ when  _he did. But between that and the trial, I'm worried he's going to go off again. I hate to say it, but let him be kind of an asshole. Better that than him sleeping with the wrong person, hurting himself, and screwing up the case for everyone._

_But who knows? All we can do is be there for him, and support Barney the best we can._

_I mean… that's what family does, you know?_

 

 

 

 

Robin sits out on the porch alone for a long time.

She doesn't know what to feel. She's numb and can recognize it in herself, the tightness of her chest, the coldness of her limbs and nerves. There's too much,  _too much_ , twisting around in her head and in Ted's story and in Barney —

She sits on the porch and looks at nothing and thinks about nothing and tries to let it all sink in.

Ted and Tracy leave her alone. Once the sun has set and the yard is noisy with insects and peepers, Ted comes out to sit next to her.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi." She stares out at the trees, tracking the path of a lone firefly.

"Are you okay?" Ted asks.

She doesn't know how to answer; she sighs.

"Yeah; stupid question," Ted says, chuckling.

It all whirls and twists in her head, anger and fear and remorse; betrayal and guilt and shame; some sick part of her hearing it and wanting to protect Barney, take care of him in some animal way; take back every cruel thing she ever thought about him not caring, not wanting, not reacting to the end. Just as much of her hates him,  _hates_ him, for acting like this, for doing this, for responding to stress the same way he's always had, tossing her aside without care or remorse.

She doesn't know what she feels.

"Tracy and I think you should stay the night," Ted's saying.

"Yeah, thanks," she says.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

"Nope," Robin says.

Ted puts his arm around her shoulders. It feels comfortable, warm, brotherly; she leans into it, closes her eyes, enjoys the feeling. She wants to cry, a large part of her: find somewhere small and safe and sob, and she doesn't even know for what. Anger. Loss. Hate. Guilt. Humiliation.

Love.

"The picture," she says, after what feels like a pretty long silence.

"Huh?"

"That picture of me, on the fridge. You went on about it in your story."

"What about it?" Ted asks, stroking her shoulder with his hand.

She's quiet, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. Swallows. "I know what picture you mean." She falls silent again. "I was tired. In the picture. It was a long day and I really hadn't slept the night before, and… I was tired. It didn't mean anything, Ted."

"Oh," he says, and if she knows Ted Mosby, he's a little disappointed his high school symbolism fell apart.

The wedding, the reception; she doesn't remember it being taken, but she remembers them at the table, the five and then four of them, long after the other guests had left, the caterers packed up, laughing and joking around together. She does remember resting against Barney for some of it, she doesn't remember thinking anything dramatic or romantic or really anything much at all.

She was just tired.

"He liked it because my arm…" Robin demonstrates on the porch, with her own arm. "He said I had good cleavage. That's all. That's the big deep reason. My boobs."

"Okay," Ted says, trying to reassure her, but all she's doing is explaining, explaining herself, justifying herself, taking the only detail of the story she can under her own control.

"It was just a picture," she says.

"I get it," he says. "You looked pretty good, Scherbatsky."

She was tired, but she was happy, back then. "Yeah," she says, leaning into Ted's one-armed embrace. "I really did."


	8. call and answer

Robin does the natural thing: she gets drunk.

She and Ted sit on the porch a while longer, until the night grows chilly and it's time for Penny to go to sleep. She watches Netflix with Ted and Tracy for a while, not paying attention to the screen; Tracy shows her to the guest room, where there's an inflatable mattress, pillows, blanket, and folded over sheet. Robin lies there for a while and tries to sleep: she's exhausted; mentally fried; yet sleep doesn't come.

That's where the alcohol comes in.

Sitting alone in the living room at three in the morning, one glass of scotch becomes two, then three: neat, from bottle to glass, and then just refilling the glass whenever it starts to look low, in the dim light from outside.

She's drinking to become sleepy, but tiredness doesn't come: a sort of warm, comfortable numbness falls over her instead, as she becomes more inebriated: Robin becomes looser, the ice in her veins warming, the weight in her heart becoming dizziness. The house is still and dark and warm around her, a distant fan humming, no traffic or music outside.

Robin doesn't hear anything from upstairs. Penny can probably sleep through the night at her age; Ted and Tracy are silent, too, fast asleep by now. Robin wonders if they had sex. She wonders if that's a weird thing to wonder, but she's drunk, and she does. Wonders if they're cuddling, spooning, even in their sleep. When she was dating Ted, he liked to cuddle: she doesn't mind it for a while after sex, but sometimes he'd want to spoon while sleeping, and that had been sorta annoying. She bets Tracy is into it, though. That kind of gooey romantic crap.

Robin's dated other guys like that. Nick had been  _way_ into cuddling, and she hadn't exactly minded draping herself over  _that_ body — she refills and empties her glass — but he'd been so annoying about it… Kevin had been weird about it, too; he'd actually asked her if she was  _okay_ with it, him draping his arm around her after the first time they'd had sex. If he was  _intruding_ on her or no.

Don, he'd never wanted to cuddle. Robin had been kinda into that: it had seemed mature, the way he'd immediately move away after sex, how they'd sleep far apart, even after she'd moved in. He hadn't been cold about it; they'd talk and joke as they redressed, got ready for bed. Grown up, unsentimental.

But then, it had turned out that Don was a huge douchebag.

And then there was Barney —

It seems like the most natural thing in the world to suddenly be holding her phone in her other hand, pressing the call button with her thumb.

He picks up on the fourth ring, and doesn't say  _hello_ , doesn't say  _go_. He says her name, like a question, and she sees his phone lying on the coffee table, where he often leaves it, her name lighting up the screen, three in the morning. "Robin?"

As soon as she hears his voice, she has a brief, dizzying flash of clarity — her gut seizing, her mind clearing —  _what is she doing_? — the story, Ted, photographs, Louisa, the empty glass in her hand, twenty girls, twenty days, and her heart thuds heard against her ribs, and she doesn't know what she's doing.

He doesn't say her name again; he doesn't say anything, and she can't hear him breathing, so maybe he hung up — her head is spinning, but it's no longer the pleasant, drunken blur: something pounds behind her forehead, and her body is tight.

"Why are you calling me?" he asks after ten hours, ten years, after a lone car's headlights shine through the windows and away again.

She's drunk. She needs to end the call, she knows that, she wants to, but his voice is in her ear and she can't move her fingers.

He says her name again, like a question.

The phone on the table; answered on the fourth ring. Was he awake? Asleep?

Penny is asleep upstairs, Tracy is asleep upstairs, Ted is asleep upstairs, his arm draped over his fiancée, his hand cupped on her shoulder, her head tucked against his shoulder and neck, her hands pressed together between her chest and the line of his arm and torso, her shoulders curled, the blankets bunched around them, that's how Robin imagines it, like actors posing in a movie, like a stock image, and it's not something Robin wants, misses, needs, but she dated Ted once, touched the edge of this postcard once, and it scared her, and there's a man on the other end of the line, on his own phone in his own home, quiet in her ear. She has an inflatable bed in Ted's home that could have been her home in another life; she has nothing in the home of her ex-husband's, the life she did choose, and she doesn't know what it means, if it means anything, except that she's drunk, and Barney is silent, silent, silent.

Ted told her so. Told her.  _He never really got loud again_. Told her.

"He told me," she says, and her voice is brittle.

He's silent, still, for a couple of seconds, or hours maybe. "What are you talking about?"

"Ted." Her head is spinning; she puts her hand over her face. "Ted told me."

"Told you what?" She can't read his tone, his new flat affect, and she knows that that's the point, that Ted was wrong to call it anger, the way she'd been wrong to think the furniture was replaced because of her. He's hiding his feelings, hiding his emotions, sliding from one extreme to another, and it doesn't comfort her or relieve her at all, knowing. It makes it somehow worse, that it's on purpose, this detached coldness, this… denial? Or whatever?

"Everything," she says. She waits for a second or two, but he doesn't say anything in that time. "Everything. All the gross, disgusting, horrible things you did this summer." He still hasn't replied, or tried to cut in to defend himself, or —

"So?" he says. There's kind of an edge to the word, his voice rising on the end in question, but it's not — not that she had expectations, but it's also not what she expected. She wanted, she wants —

She wants him to feel something. She wants him to feel guilty, to hear her and, and do something — fall over himself apologizing, that would feel good,  _I'm sorry for being so fucking gross and awful_ , or make one of his speeches, like he used to, after the Playbook, after the open house, or when his mom was being awful or when he pretended to be her dad, or, or — and then she could decide whether or not she'd forgive him, then, and she's  _drunk_ , but she wants that, wants to feel some scrap of  _something_ , some remorse in his voice, some power over him, yeah, sure.

" _You're right," he says, his voice suddenly taut with emotion, spilling out from wherever he had hidden it, whatever passes for his heart._

" _I know," she says, her voice freer, clearer, but she takes a breath and it's a little shaky. "Barney, what the hell? Why would you do this? Didn't you know how awful it'd make me feel?"_

" _I wasn't thinking about that," he admits. "Robin, I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking about you, if I had, I never would have done it."_

" _I just don't get it, Barney," she says, gazing down at her empty glass. "you used to think about me. You used to… It's like as soon as you left me, you changed your personality. You used to think about me. And it just makes me think… did you ever, was it all…"_

" _It was all just a cry for help," he says. "You know that. I exaggerated a lot of what I told Ted, it wasn't as bad as he said, and I didn't_ mean _any of it. The truth is, I still love you. I didn't want to do any of those things, or leave you, or forget about you, or not think about you. So what do you say? Will you take me back? I'll do anything it takes. I can change of all that gross stuff, and be the man you want me to be. I take back everything I did. I never meant any of it. I'm already —" she hears the rustling of heavy paper — "working on a crazy, elaborate scheme to make you forgive me. So whaddya say, Scherbartsky?"_

_She can't speak; her eyes are hot and watery. "I," she coughs out, and —_

"Why are you calling?" Barney says, in reality, his voice cold and tired and flat.

She's a little thrown — he's not on script. "What do you mean, why am I calling?" She tries to summon the righteous superior fury from her imagining, but even she is aware she sounds uncertain; drunk. "Ted  _told_ me. All about —"

"Right," he interrupts, and his voice  _is_ taut, but not with choked up tragedy and emotion, "except, you know what? It's, uh, it's none of your business."

She can't breathe for a second: actually cannot, no air in her lungs with no capability to draw more in. "What?"

He's silent for a second or two. Maybe an hour. "You heard me."

She breathes in, sharp. Her phone is slippery; her hand is sweaty. Her head spins. She breathes in, and exhales, and: "of course it's my fucking business!" It bursts out of her, a shaky anger, and she sucks in another breath and again: "Did you think, did you think for  _one second_? How I'd feel? To - to hear my  _ex_ spent, celebrated our —  _breakup_ — by sleeping with half of Manhattan?  _Again_? Fuck, Barney, I," somehow his name, coming out of her mouth, throws her. She hasn't used it in a while.

He laughs, humorlessly, in her ear. "No," he says. "I didn't think about you at all." It's not the right part of the script. It's not how she wants this to go. She should be crying and he should be saying nice things, apologizing, taking it all back. He's not. He's not. "We  _divorced_ ," he says.

_Not yet_ , she bites back.  _Yet_? How pathetic. How fucking pathetic, she's sitting in Ted's living room at three in the morning with a bottle of scotch, trying to, to what? Plead with her ex to… to what? Thinking about it hurts, makes her gut clench up, at her own private stupidity, at his refusing to do what she wants —  _thought_ she wanted — and, "Guess what?" he's saying, sounding less sleepy, less angry, more  _cocky_ , full himself, the bastard he is — "this is who I am. This is what always I've been:  _awesome_."

But that isn't true.

"No," Robin says, her anger at herself pushing outwards, over the phone, "this is way  _worse_ than what you've always been." He doesn't immediately say anything, so she pushes on: "I mean — I mean, what the  _fuck_? We break up, and barely  _two months_ later you're hitting on college students? Treating people like  _shit_ , treating Ted and everyone like shit,  _women_  — I thought you were better, you'd  _changed_ or something," that he'd changed for her, that she'd, somehow, changed him, brought out his inner good nature, the person he was beneath and before the suits and scotch, "but this? A Perfect  _Month_?" She doesn't know if she's making sense or not, her head is spinning, and her eyes are hot: she thinks she's about to cry.

"What do you care?" he demands, but she's ready, angry, not even thinking:

"Because it's like I was just some kind of fucking pit-stop to you!  _Again_! Christ, Barney! I thought when we  _dated_ you treated me like garbage, but at least back then you pretended to be my  _friend_ after!" Her voice collapses into a loud, choked sob; she clasps her free hand over her mouth and squeezes her eyes shut, willing herself to not breathe, to at least do it quietly.

He's silent.

As long as her eyes are shut, she isn't crying, but even the breath she sucks in through her nose is shaky, her shoulders trembling, and she tries to get herself together, get herself under control. Calvin in her office, telling her she's not over it. Ted's story with all its details and dialogue, and Tracy never so much as glancing over towards her as he talks. Her stupid drunken idea of how this would go, crumbled into dust.  _The truth is, I still love you_.

_You're not just another number to me_ , he'd said once. Now she hears him draw breath. "I wasn't pretending. Back then."

She laughs, and it's shaky and she hates herself. "Well, you sure as hell aren't trying now."

He's quiet again. "What do you want me to say?" His voice is tense, so tense, but it's different, without the brief touch of anger, without the false stoicism he's been pulling with Ted and Marshall and her. "We didn't break up, we  _divorced_. You lost all right to have anything to say about my life the second you walked out on me."

"I— on  _you_?" Robin opens her eyes; two fat, horrible tears splash onto her hand, her fist at her mouth. "You — you're the one who  _left_ , you're the one who didn't want shit to do with me after," after. After they'd gone to Argentina, after she's taken the correspondent's job, after that trip to Vermont, the last good time they'd had, except even then he'd been trying to fake it, act all nice and happy all the time, and he'd dropped that quick, hadn't he? He'd dropped her quick, after —

After the hospital, after the baby, their  _son_ , she thinks the word and her mind shies violently away,  _no after nothing no stop, stop, stop_  —

"We told everyone nothing was gonna change!" She says, and there's another sob and she's prepared for it, clenches her fingers around her thigh, presses her nails into the skin until it hurts and doesn't stop, " _you_ told them, nothing was going to change, we were still going to be friends." In this very room, two feet away from where she's sitting, she remembers, how hard it had been to smile and act cool and how strained he'd been and how it had annoyed her at the time, that he was doing such a bad job of it all.

"You just took off," he says. His voice is very quiet. "So what about you? Every time we talk, you yell at me."

"Every time we talk, you're fucking awful!"

"For like a year," he says. "You've been yelling at me for like a year."

_Because you deserved it,_ she just about says, but then gets muddled with the timeline, dates, no, it's only been six months, he's not being truthful, he's…

A year. A year ago, she'd been in the hospital. Out of the hospital. Ted telling his story at the kitchen table, running his finger in the grain of the wood as he recounted what he'd spoken with Lily about in court, Lily, Lily taking Barney's side, Ted talking about Lily,  _his wife left him after a miscarriage_ , like it was someone else Lily was referring to, like  _she_  wasn't the wife, like the miscarriage wasn't her own, her own biology, her own guts, her own heart wavering so much over the decision that her body took care of the problem for her, Barney on the balcony, chain smoking after hearing the news.  _Okay_ , he says.  _Here's the play._

_How do you feel about Quebec?_

She hasn't said anything. Her face is wet and her eyes itch. "You—" her voice cracks. "You deserved it."

For telling her all those things.

For lying for so long.

She hears him take in a breath. Maybe she's imagining the tremble. "Why do you keep calling me?" he asks, and she doesn't know, doesn't recognize, the tone in his voice. "Robin, you keep calling me in the middle of the night, and I don't know why."

She rubs at her face, her eyes, her nose. "I just wanted to tell you how —" How badly it hurt, seeing, hearing, how little he cares. How little he'd ever cared. How little he cares now, how he won't even tell her, even if it's a lie, that she's more than a number or more than nothing or awesome or in any way important to him and his life, that she ever was. Why won't he tell her that? Why not? He's quiet. " _Say_ something," she says.

"You were going to tell me how…" he starts, then stops. She almost prompts him again, and then he finishes, on his own, sounding almost uncertain: "much I suck?"

_No,_ she thinks. She wanted him to tell her — but he's right, she did start to say something else. "You do suck," she says, laughing humorlessly and crying and her head spinning and nose congested. He clears his throat; she takes in a deep breath and starts before he can. "You — you do _._ You  _suck_. I, God, I spent  _so long_ , Barney, I spent so long telling myself you weren't — you were  _different_ , you  _changed_ , you  _meant it_ , I really, God, I really wanted to believe you, and then you pull this, you  _always_ pull this, the — it, it's like the second I turn around, you're back to being  _disgusting_ , as long as I've known you, you've  _always_ , always pulled exactly this shit — and everyone, Ted tells me this story and it's all  _poor Barney,_ poor Barney lashing out because — because  _I_ was so, because of  _me_ , but I never forced you — no one forced you to do that! And Ted and Lily just think you're  _so sad_ , and lashing out, and, and," and what about her? When does she get to be sad, when does she get to lash out, to not be over it, to act badly and have their friends on her side, petting her and telling telling each other  _her husband left her after she lost her baby_ , like she's not the terrible one. She doesn't know what she's saying any more, she doesn't know what she was saying to begin with, but it's not her fault, it's  _not_ , the baby wasn't her fault, the divorce wasn't her fault, her leaving, him leaving, it wasn't her fault, it was him, it has to be him, it has to have been him, because wasn't her body betraying her enough? "And you're disgusting. You're fucking disgusting. And — you know what, I'm glad." She can't breathe, she can't fucking  _breathe_ , in through her nose and shaking out thought her mouth, a gasp for more air, "I'm so —  _glad_ — it's over, because I can't stand —" In, out, her fist to her mouth, her phone slippery in damp fingers, "I can't  _stand_  you."

He's silent.

She's not; breathing hard and crying and her nose running and shoulders, breath shaking, her hair sticking to her face and fist pushed against her teeth, knuckles to her lip, the pain is good, but the regret washes over her in waves, immediately, why did she say that? It didn't feel good, like the release she wanted, like the honesty she wanted, and all she feels is guilt and nausea and pain, physical pain, and he's silent, and that's good, because she wants him to never speak again — and that's bad, because she wants to know, she needs to know, what he's doing to say, and every second he doesn't — but why doesn't he? If he says he hates her too, then at least she knows it, at least he's finally being honest, and maybe then she can finally move on.

But he's silent.

"Say something," she begs. " _Say something_."

But he doesn't.

"Barney," she says, wiping at her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her skin swollen and itchy and red.

"I," he says. "Yeah," he says. "I." His voice is faint, is he speaking quietly, or can she not hear? She pulls up her knees and drops her forehead onto them, like a teenager, her back aching, and she hears him take a slow, deep breath through his nose. "Got it," he says, his voice tight and uncertain, like both words, all his fragments of sentences, are difficult somehow, more than just five words, and she said so much more and is so much more broken.  _Got it_ , he says. Like he knows or agrees or doesn't want to respond. She doesn't think he's going to say anything else — it's just like him, to refuse to fight, to be too scared of telling the truth, but then he takes in a quick breath. "Totally. Uh, I know," and he speaks like he's trying to sound bracing, casual, but also like there's nothing left of him and it should feel good but it makes her feel hollow, cold, "you never really," he stops. She's frozen into icy shards. He pushes, comes out sounding almost casual, almost playing it off, almost like he wants to run away, "And, uh, you always thought so."

_No_ , she thinks.

Maybe she says it aloud.

Maybe she says  _don't be ridiculous_ , maybe she tells him he's wrong, that if he's implying for a second that she — but it's also what she just said, and she doesn't know. She hates him so much, she's so angry at him, for all the things he's done and she's done and she's done because of him. Ted telling her what he did to warn her, Calvin telling her what she thinks to warn her, his heels clicking in the lobby, South American wine, calling him again and again, thinking about him again and again for years and for years, she'd gotten over Ted and Don and Kevin and Nick and she wants to get over him, she doesn't want to get over him, she wants to hate him, and he tells her he knows she does and she wants to stop him, to shake him, to (kiss him) tell him to never say that ever again. She's so angry, she's so mad, but he tells her  _you never_ and her whole body goes  _no_.

Maybe she said nothing, maybe she can't speak, maybe she'll never speak again, because he says, his voice heavy and tired and hollow, "why did you call?"  _Because I_ , she thinks, and she's been doing that a lot, thinking, but how much has she said?

_You always thought so_ , he says.

She remembers their wedding.

Not the ceremony, but right before, the moment she'd been so desperate to get away, get some distance, get some time, get something she couldn't name or describe, that she'd locked Ted in the room and crashed into Tracy, and turned around and he was there. And there'd been one moment of blind fear, blind  _panic_ , seeing him, and all she had thought was  _what did he see_ and  _what did he hear_ , because if he'd seen her running, if he'd known she was trying to leave him (for distance, for time, for  _air_ ), then — he, who always thought the best of her! — and her whole body had gone icy, like this, now, in Ted's living room, but he hadn't seen, hadn't said, hadn't noticed her moment of panicked doubt — and the  _relief_ she'd felt, that she didn't have to excuse herself, didn't have to pretend, or lie, or explain why she was scared, that she could just push it away and let him say something nice and ignore it —

_I know you always thought so_ , he says.

(And she'd been proven right, hadn't she, in her panic, back then? It had been so easy to find reasons to doubt him and throw it all into his arms, because he'd left her anyway, hadn't he?  _I know_ , he says.  _I know you always.)_

She's thinking and thinking and saying nothing that she feels.

He thinks she never —

"Right," he says.

She hears him exhale, shaky and slow.

"I'm gonna hang up," he says, quiet.

She still hasn't spoken, she realizes, and gulps in a breath: "No," she says.

He doesn't hang up; she can hear him pull in a breath, like he's surprised.

"No, I don't."

He doesn't say anything.

"I don't — I don't always think so." She's messed up the tenses, but it's all in a rush, and she can hear him take in a breath and it sounds like hers, shaky and scared. "I don't think that. So — fuck you, Barney Stinson. I don't think that, but I hate you so goddamn  _much_."

"Why do you keep calling me?" he asks, shaky and frustrated and if she didn't know better, sad.

Because she's angry at him. Because he's disgusting. Because Ted told her everything and she wants to hit him and hug him and cry and shoot him in the knees. Because she doesn't think that. She doesn't know. She doesn't know at all.

"Why do you answer?" she asks.


	9. halloween

**Manhattan, New York.**

**Monday, October 31st, 2016.**

 

 

 

Robin can't decide if she's going to Marshall and Lily's Halloween party until three in the afternoon the day of. Ted keeps texting her about it, asking if she's going, sending pictures of Penny in her Halloween costume, which is cute and all but not much incentive. It's only when Lily calls her the morning of to tell her that Barney can't make it that she RSVPs.

She hasn't spoken to him, heard from him, in almost two weeks. Since the night she'd drunkenly called him, told him — awful things, true things, heard him tell her that he knows. She'd woken up late the next morning with puffy eyes and a red face and a killer hangover; had breakfast with Ted and Tracy as they pretended not to see. When she'd woken up, her phone had still been in her hand. She remembers holding it after he'd hung up, looking at his name and the little picture of him on her contacts page: a bad photo of him she'd taken at a party years ago. It used to make her laugh whenever he called.

It occurs to her that he's probably not going to the party because she might. Robin feels — she doesn't know what she feels about it. Relief? Guilt, fear, anxiety?  _You always thought so_ , echoing over and over in her brain. She told him she hated him and he only said  _I know_.

She'd wanted him to apologize. She would have taken him back if he —

No, she wouldn't have. Because they're over. She doesn't  _want_ him. But she feels a pulse of anxiety about it anyway, that he has the wrong idea. That he believes what she told him.

But it doesn't matter, anyway. She's going to the Halloween party; then she's leaving New York on the third. Their divorce lawyer mailed Robin the documents last week; she just has to sign them, send them along to Barney. She doesn't even have to talk to him. This was why she'd come to the city, after all.

Once she's away, things will get better. She was doing just fine not thinking about any of this while she was in Mexico and Butan. She'll go to the party, and then she'll leave. It'll be nice, to see Lily and Marshall and Ted and Tracy one last time, in a nice context, before she goes.

Robin considers getting a costume together, but in the end she doesn't feel up for it: even knowing all her friends will be dressed up, most of her Halloween memories involve Barney in some way. He would start trying to plan his costume in the last weeks of September, and when they were together, drag her in ( _I'll be Batman, and you can be — Robin? — No, slutty Poison Ivy!)._ Or watching him dress up alone, year after year, to hit on women.

It's too much; she wears jeans.

She shows up at Lily and Marshall's apartment, her and Ted's old apartment, early, aware that this will be the last time she's here for a while. Quite possibly ever: Lily and Marshall are moving out to Long Island City, and after that, who knows what will happen to the place? She tries to feel nostalgic as she walks up the worn stairs, down the musty halls, but she doesn't feel anything much. She'd loved the apartment, it had been  _home_ in a way not many other places ever have been, but it all feels like it was decades and decades ago, the times they'd waste whole days moving from sofa to fridge to the bar, talking about absolutely nothing.

What did they all talk about? Robin remembers Ted complaining about girls; Lily and Marshall a blur of domestic wedded bliss. Coming home at odd hours to find the others still up, playing weird games, throwing crackers for Marshall to catch in his mouth. Lying collapsed on the sofa after work, the others coming in and out with no notice or invitation, the way she'd come home from a date or job or something and find Barney hanging out by himself, alone, or how she'd done that herself, when it was Lily and Marshall and Ted's place, treated it as her second home or personal cafe when she didn't feel like taking the train out to Brooklyn. But what did they do? What did they talk about? There must have been big, meaningful moments, not just television and parties and hanging out. They must have done something, made it important, made it The Apartment in some way. Robin can just about remember the first time she set foot inside — that third party Ted had thrown to impress her, decades and centuries back. She'd hung out in the kitchen with Lily because she'd had an inkling she'd run into Ted later, needed to figure out what to tell him; Robin can't remember anymore what her plan was. That girl who wanted to let Ted down easy — she doesn't feel like the same person.

She wonders what would have happened if she hadn't become friends with Ted. She wonders what would have happened if she'd agreed to date him, that first time in this apartment. If anything would have changed. Been better. Been worse.

Because it  _is_ the apartment, Robin doesn't knock, she just fishes out her key and lets herself in, thinking  _that was the first time, this is the last time_ , thinking about Ted and that party and this one.

So she's completely unprepared for the door to swing open onto Barney, apparently stripping in the living room.

It's not the strangest thing she's ever seen, walking in to this apartment, but right here, in this moment, it feels like the worst.

He tosses a gray bundle at the sofa, where Lily is sitting; then peels off a white tee-shirt —  _tee-shirt —_ and begins to undo the belt on his jeans. ( _Jeans_!) His back is to Robin; he's clearly mid-rant. "— saying 'oh, it's  _Prada_ , don't  _worry_  about it!' It's a pullover! I'm frankly ashamed that such a venerable brand even  _makes_ pullover sweaters, and Paula says I have to—" he pulls off the belt, turns, and sees Robin in the door, all in one movement. The annoyed, disgusted look that usually accompanies Barney's sartorial ranting falls off his face — his eyes go wide and he freezes. Robin hasn't moved.

They both turn to look at Lily at the same time, who twists herself on the sofa, looking over at Robin. She has a cup of tea in her hands and doesn't look concerned at all, by any of it. "Oh, hey, Robin! You're kinda early!"

Her mind is blank. All she wants to say is  _you promised he wouldn't be here_ , but of course it's instantly obvious that Lily lied, was trying to set up exactly this, and Robin knows she'll be angry about that in a minute but Barney is  _right there_ , turning around silently, reaching for a canvas bag that probably contains less offensive clothing, she sees the muscles in his back move as he bends. He looks like he's lost weight.

 _I know you always thought so_. Robin doesn't know what to say, what to do. So she does the only thing she can think of: she closes the door, gently, between herself and the scene before her. She stumbles backwards. She leaves.

She tries to leave. Robin gets as far as the stairs before she has to sit down, before she feels sick and dizzy and winded from the shock, so she sits at the head of the staircase and puts her forehead in her hands and tries to calm down, tries to not feel whatever it is she's feeling — some burning, hot feeling of something like humiliation, at seeing him, unexpectedly, after…

But it's okay. It's fine. She doesn't have to go to this party, she can go to the hotel, she can sign the papers right now and FedEx them to Barney and be on a plane in two hours, she can go, get out of here, never, ever have to see him or anyone unexpectedly ever again. She knows that won't fix anything, it'll make several things (Lily, Ted, Marshall) actively  _worse_ , but it's tempting. Right now, it's tempting.

Why is this happening? She wasn't such a wreck before she came back to New York. Before she started seeing him again. Everything was supposed to be fine. Robin knows she should suck it up and head back in — her head is feeling a little clearer — to prove that Barney's presence doesn't matter to her, that none of this matters to her, so that's what she'll do.  _She_  hasn't done anything wrong.

"Robin?"

She cranes her head around to see Lily wearing some kind of white jumpsuit thing under one of Marshall's shirts, halfway down the hallway. Dammit. Fuck. There's no way to pretend she hadn't been sitting here upset — at least she isn't crying — so instead she takes one deep breath and tries not to flush. "Hey, Lily," she says.

"Are you okay?" Lily asks, walking closer carefully, one hand on her frankly enormous belly.

"Oh, sure," Robin says, sitting on dirty linoleum stairs, on her eight panic attack of the month. "Just, what the hell? You told me Barney wasn't going to be here."

"Yeah," Lily says, slowly, carefully, sitting down on the stairs beside her, a process that takes a good thirty seconds. "I told Barney the same thing about you.  _He_ didn't run out of the room in a panic."

"Are you kidding me?" Robin asks, not at the idea, but at Lily's tone, sort of jaunty, like this is no big deal; she glares sideways at Lily, who stares back, lips pursed, unperturbed. "Things are awful between us, and you're trying to set up a — what, meet cute? Oh, look at us at the same party, how sweet?"

Lily loses a little bit of her cool composure, and Robin knows she has it exactly right. "Well —" Lily says, "you two  _have_ to work things out."

"We're not getting back together!" Robin cries, frustrated, because every time it's exactly the same thing.

"I'm not trying to do that!" Lily protests, rubbing her stomach. "But, c'mon Robin. You two can't even be in the same room together? How are we going to have Thanksgiving? Robots vs Wrestlers?  _Christmas_? The six of us can't go the rest of our lives splitting holidays between Uncle Barney and Aunt Robin."

"Don't worry," Robin says coldly. "That's not going to be an issue."

Lily hesitates for a second. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm out of here," Robin says. "The… stuff I was in the city to do is done, I'm heading out in a few days."

"What?" Lily's voice is suddenly high in distress. "You're leaving? Where?"

"Dubai," Robin says, which isn't true — it's just the first place that pops into her head. "On the fourth." She stares straight ahead of her, knowing that if she looks at Lily while she says it, the lie will be obvious.

" _Why_?" Lily asks, and Robin looks back over, is alarmed to see her friend's eyes watery.

"Why do you think?" Robin asks, and it comes out pretty harsh and impatient and she tries to reel it in. "Lily, I can't… I can't be around him. I can't be around you guys." Lily's expression is infectious or something, because she looks down at her legs, has to blink a couple of times. "I  _can't_. Every time I talk to him, it's awful, I…"  _every time we talk, you yell at me_. "I get upset, and he…" He's what? He's cold, this new fake stoicism thing, but he– he, well… he ignores her.

He ignores her. That's what he does. He pretends not to see her: he looks at his phone, or out the window, or at Marshall. He doesn't look at her, doesn't talk to her. He pretends she's not there. Unless she calls —

Robin clears her throat, continues on: "…he's just awful, Ted  _told_ me all the shit he pulled…"

"I know," Lily said. "I know, I get that. I just…" She sniffles, then wipes at her eyes. "I just want us to still be friends! All of us! I know — if you can't ever forgive him, I get it, I  _understand_ , I really do, but I don't want to lose  _you_ , to lose… all of this, our  _family_ , and I can just see it happening. You want to leave forever, he's shutting everyone out, he might even go to  _jail_ …"

"His lawyers said he won't be charged," Robin interrupts.

"And it's like everything's falling apart!" Lily continues, choking back a sob, and Robin takes a deep, trembling breath and puts her arm around her. Lily leans against her arm, sniffling, and Robin is a little surprised at how nice it feels; not Lily crying into her shirt, but the contact of another person, Lily's weight against hers, the warmth of her body. "How did things end up this badly?" Lily asks, sniffling.

"I don't know," Robin says. She thinks about the apartment behind them, all the times they've gone in and out and done nothing important and so many important things inside. She remembers that third party, talking with Lily in the kitchen. They hadn't really been friends then, but Robin had liked her, had known they  _could_ be, as they talked. Barney had been at that party, but Robin doesn't really remember it; maybe seeing him around a little, she's sure Lily must have pointed him out. Or is she trying to attach some kind of significance, some sort of  _roads diverged_ feeling to the memory? In reality, she doubts she paid him much attention back then. She hadn't liked Barney at first meeting; back then she'd liked Ted.

She'd spent the night and most of the next day at Ted and Tracy's house in White Plains, waking up exhausted and with deep shadows under her eyes. Tracy had been sweet, her default mood, but she'd had to lock herself in the study for a conference call and work, had taken Penny with her to 'get her outta the way.' Ted had taken the day off of work, and they'd spent most of it hanging out together. Not doing anything much: grocery shopping, some other errands. There was a park near Ted's house with a jogging trail, they walked the loop a couple of times, Ted pointedly not asking about anything and Robin not bringing it up.

Ted can be great like that. Careful. Easy. Not talking about bad things, not forcing unpleasant things, skimming around and avoiding conflict. It was one of the things that made dating him so easy, even with all the warnings that it would turn into a bad idea. She never had to  _fight_  for it.

"Do you ever wonder," Robin asks, when Lily is a little more composed, "if things could have been different?"

"All the time," Lily says, maybe a little reproachfully.

"No, I mean, big stuff." She rubs at Lily's arm. "Like… what if when you knocked on that door in college, Ted had answered?"

Lily laughs weakly. "I was already after Marshall back then, it wouldn't have mattered."

"Okay, bad example." There's one on Robin's mind, but she hesitates before articulating it; she knows how it sounds. "Or what if… things had worked out between me and Ted?"

Lily freezes; she can feel her tense. "What do you mean?"

"Like if we'd never broken up," Robin says, trying to defend her hypothetical. "I mean, he was chasing after me for years, that's serious devotion, right? I could have — you know. Maybe I would have ended up with him, and then we wouldn't be in this mess at all. Everyone would be happy." Even as she says it, it sounds kind of ridiculous: she immediately thinks of Tracy. Of Penny. "I mean…" she doesn't know what she means, except that whenever she's upset, without fail, Ted is there for her, not pushing her, not prodding at her, not cold to her, pretending she doesn't matter to him, acting like she means nothing to him — Lily doesn't immediately respond, which is a bad sign. "It would have been way easier," Robin finishes lamely.

She wouldn't be trying to escape if she'd divorced Ted. He'd probably be really understanding about it.

"For you, maybe," Lily says, her voice sounding kind of funny.  _Tracy, Penny_ , Robin thinks again. Lily sighs, and sits up straight, moving away from Robin, and she tries not to take it personally. "Ted spent years thinking the two of you would end up together," Lily says, her voice flat, "but you never did."

"Well, maybe I'm looking back on things…" Robin doesn't know why she's arguing, because Lily's right and she knows it, but she put it out there and now has to defend her hypothetical reality.

"You're not looking back and going 'oh, I should have married Ted.' What you're  _doing_ is thinking 'oh, getting divorced from  _Ted_ would have been way easier, since Ted likes to suppress his emotions and isn't an asshat who puts his foot in his mouth every time he speaks,'" Lily says pointedly.

"…Which sounds like a big pro-Ted argument right there!" Robin counters, feeling her face grow hot.

"Even now, you're not talking about how you care about  _him_ , you're talking about how he's nice to  _you_."

"Of course I care about Ted," Robin scoffs. "He's one of my best friends, next to you."

"Sure. You know what you were doing all those years Ted was pining over you?" Lily gives her a look.

Well, Robin was — doing a lot of things, really, but she knows what Lily is getting at:  _Pining over Barney_. That's not exactly true, but it all blends together in her head, the past decade, her memories all framing themselves around Barney: there was  _dating Barney_ , and  _terrible breakup_ and  _rebound_ and Nora and Kevin and freakin' Patrice, Quinn ruining everything at the wrong moment, and it feels in her memory like it was all, somehow, out of love for Barney, even though it wasn't at the time.

"And see how that worked out?" she mutters, rubbing at her hot cheek.

Lily sighs. "My point is that you can't just pretend this never happened, or wish it happened in another way that you'd find easier." She kind of humorlessly chuckles. "You've always kinda used Ted as your fallback for if what you actually want gets too hard, and now's  _really_ not the time for that, since he's gonna be here with his fiancée and kid pretty soon."

Robin knows she's right, but it stings, the way she makes it sound like Robin is keeping Ted on her hook, even now. Even if maybe it's a little true, she thinks, remembering them walking around the duck pond in White Plains. "I'm not," she says lamely. It's all she can think of to say.

Thankfully, Lily doesn't pursue; she clearly thinks the whole thing is stupid. Maybe it is stupid. But Robin still keeps thinking Ted is a better ex than Barney. Instead, Lily changes the subject. "Please come to the party, Robin," she says. "Especially if this is gonna be the last time we see you for a while."

Robin sighs. "I don't — I don't want you trying to fix things between us. It's not going to happen, okay?"

"I won't," she says. "You don't have to talk to Barney. You don't even have to be in the same room as him. Please, don't run away."

Lily putting it like that stings, too: Robin's not  _running_ , she's  _leaving_ , but, okay, maybe that's an excuse. "Okay," she says. "I'll give it a shot."

On some unspoken agreement, the two women begin to stand, Robin having to help Lily significantly, Lily making various sounds of discomfort as she lifts herself up, gets her balance, takes the first couple of steps.

"Don't take this as interest," Robin says, as they head back towards the apartment, "but what the hell was Barney doing when I came in? Cause it  _looked_ like he was stripping for you."

Lily snorts and gives her a look she pretends not to see. "No, he was just throwing a fit about the clothes his publicist is putting him in — couldn't take another minute in those clothes, blah blah blah. You know Barney, modesty isn't one of his strong points. He has a rock and roll costume for tonight, I think."

"Oh," Robin says, thinking that that sounds like just the sort of costume he'd wear to pick up girls. "And you were just sitting there watching?"

"Hey, he works out," Lily says guiltlessly.

"I think he's lost weight, actually," Robin says without thinking first, and it's a good thing they're at the door, because that way she can open it and barge in and not notice the look Lily is giving her. She's braced herself, she knows Barney is still here.

But he'll ignore her. That's what he does. He pretends she isn't there, because he acts like she doesn't matter to him, because that's probably the truth: because he doesn't care about her and never did. He thinks she never loved him, but he's the one who…

"Hey," Lily says casually, entering the apartment behind Robin. "we're back,"

Barney's sitting on the chair to the left of the sofa, facing the door. Robin catches his eye, completely accidentally: he looks tense, he looks at Lily instead. "When is everyone else arriving? You said the party was starting at four."

"Yeah, it's actually five," says Lily. She goes into the kitchen and leaves Robin standing there, super awkward, in the living room. She should go sit on the sofa, but tries to follow Lily instead. She almost crashes into her: Lily is already leaving, two heavy glasses in hand. "No reason we can't get this party started! Robin, grab the drinks from the table?"

Helplessly, Robin does. "Where are Marshall and the kids?" Lily stares at her so expectantly that she sits down on the sofa, as far from Barney as she can.

"Marv's preschool is having a trick-or-treat for tykes thing," Lily says, pouring two big glasses of neat Scotch. "We loaded up the iPad with Disney movies, so when the party starts, they can stay in here and watch TV. I think Claudia's bringing Esther, and Mr Lowell downstairs has his kids this week." She hands Barney and Robin their cups. Robin takes a sip, and looks over at Barney.  _This is ridiculous_ , she's thinking: it's like they're on an awkward blind date. She wishes Lily would let it go.

He's not pretending not to see her; she catches his eye again. She looks away quickly. "Barney, where's your costume?" Lily asks.

Robin kinda of blinks: she only realizes now that instead of his shirtless look or a rock star costume, he's wearing a dark blue suit, grey tie. It's so much his usual look that she hadn't even noticed, but she remembers that he's apparently in the midst of a battle over his wardrobe and not  _in_ suits lately.

"This  _is_ my costume," he says, stroking his own arm with one hand. "A beautiful virgin wool blend three piece with checkered salmon lining."

"How is that a costume?" Lily demands.

"I haven't worn a suit in weeks!" Barney sulks. "Anyway, it's from a 2008 collection; it's vintage."

Robin has to lift up her glass to her mouth, because she wants to smile. It's the first time in a long time she's heard Barney sound… like… well, himself. Because he's only talking to Lily, she thinks, and the feeling sours.

"Where were you  _keeping_ it?" Lily's asking. "You came here with a canvas bag, no way you had it stuffed in there."

"Please," he says. Robin looks up, sure his focus is on Lily, but he's looking at her again. Still? She resists the urge to look away, and he looks down at his suit again. She drinks more scotch and tries to focus on the dread, the feeling that things are about to go horribly wrong. He's acting — like himself. That's not on-script. Pretending to be staring at her glass, she looks through her eyelashes over at him. His glass is on the coffee table, untouched. His hands rest on the arms of the chair, his fingers tight on the edges. He moves them both at once, reaches for his glass, and she looks away, but she thinks he saw her looking, again, because all at once his tone changes: he and Lily continue to chit-chat, Robin continues to silently drink, but his tone becomes stiffer, less warm, and Robin doesn't look at him again.

God, this is awkward.

But she's not yelling, and he's not talking to her, so that's something, and if she tries really hard, thinks  _no_ whenever her mind skitters there, then she isn't thinking about the things she said when she was drunk, the things he said on the phone. She stays quiet, and she drinks, and she drinks again, and Lily refills both their glasses.

 

 

 

After a while, other people arrive and the party begins: Robin stays where she is, on the sofa, drinking: people come over to say hi, she oohs and ahhs over Marvin and Daisy's sailor costumes (it turns out that Lily's white unitard is a whale costume, somehow — Robin tries to refrain from judgement). Barney heads up to the roof as soon as the party moves there; Robin stays behind in the living room and watches half of  _Frozen_ with the kids before she leaves them in the care of the babysitter, heads up to the roof too. That's where the alcohol is.

She ends up standing near the fire escape, half in a conversation with Lily and Claudia about moving;  _yeah we wanted to be moved in by the first, but with everything going on - oh you mean the trial, you have to tell me - no, barney is - are you really -_ and then Robin gets sick of it, heads back towards the punch table. It's right at the edge of the roof, and she finds herself staring blankly at the patio across the alley, the covered hot tub.

"Feeling like taking the leap?" Ted asks, sliding up beside her. She jumps, and he laughs. He's dressed in his hanging chad costume —  _again_ — and holding Penny, who is wearing a pink pill-box baby hat, and a yellow outfit with black vertical stripes.

"No," says Robin, draining her cup. "Is Penny a —" she can't even say it, but Ted beams, holds her up.

"A Pen-cil? The cutest one in the whole wide world?"

Robin groans, audibly. "I'm not talking to you anymore. That's awful."

"Tracy completely outdid herself with her Florida Voter costume, and we thought, what else could Penny be?" Ted continues happily, ignoring Robin completely. She's willing to bet money that he has her up on the roof not out of doting parent feelings, but for further opportunity to use the puns.

She remembers her conversation with Lily about Ted, and suddenly feels a little heavier.

"Where's your costume, Scherbatsky?" Ted's asking with faux-seriousness.

"I wasn't even sure I was going to come," Robin says. She looks out over the roof: about forty people are gathered, many of them younger than they are: single twenty-somethings wandered up from the bar, looking to drink and score. She looks for Barney, doesn't see him. Doesn't want to see him: she turns back to the punch table.

"Yeah, Lily mentioned that," Ted says. He looks kind of judgmental. "She told me you guys talked earlier."

Robin feels a trickle of something like panic. "About what?"

"About how you're planning on taking off to Dubai," Ted says, frowning.

Robin's relieved, but feels a pang of guilt. "Look, can we not talk about this? I'm here, I just want to enjoy the party."

"Sure," says Ted. Robin pointedly refills her cup with beer. "Look, I just wanted to check in on you," Ted says more seriously. "I think I might have screwed up, telling you everything the other week like that. You were really upset."

"I'm glad I know," Robin says flatly. She's pretty sure that's true.

"I could have been less… detailed," Ted admits, which would be funny in any other context, because they all know that's not his strength.

"It's fine," she says. She drains her cup.

"Are you sure?" Robin doesn't answer; Ted fusses with Penny for a minute, she's grabbing at his hair and shirt and costume. "Okay, it's just, Barney's been screening my calls," Ted continues in a low voice; Robin can barely hear him over the music and chatter of the party. "He's been chatting away with Lily and Marshall all night, but he's kinda ignoring me. That  _never_ happens."

"I don't see what this has to do with me," Robin says.

Ted sighs. "Did you… I don't know, talk to him?"

"Not recently," she says. "Ted, he's just a huge fucking asshole. He doesn't know how to be nice to  _anyone_."

"So you didn't? You didn't call him up in the middle of the night and tell him off?" That's so on the money that Robin looks back over at him. Ted sighs in admission. "He told Lily, and she told me."

"What did he say?" Robin asks, without thinking, without even stopping to digest this news. That Barney still talks to Lily, that he'd tell this to Lily, like it was something that mattered, to him, but why? Did it matter because it annoyed him? Or did it matter because it mattered? And why does she care? But she does, because she wants it to. She wants it to hurt, she wants her words to have hurt him, to have  _hit_ him, to effect him. She wants him to feel something. Feel something towards her. "I mean, not like I care."

Ted's giving her a look like he knows exactly what she's thinking. "That you…" he trails off, his eyes fixing on a spot behind Robin. He clamps his mouth shut. She turns around, her face aflame.

It's Barney. "Don't mind me," he says, helping himself to a bottle of rum from the table — not pouring it into a cup, but taking the whole bottle.

Ted gapes at him. "Don't sneak up on people like that!"

"Huh?" Barney says. "Sorry, I was ignoring you." He says it with this fake cheerful voice, and Robin wants to die. She doesn't know how much he'd heard, but it was clearly more than a couple of seconds. She doesn't know what to say or do.

"Dude, you have been ignoring me," Ted says, looking deeply embarrassed.

"Dude, you've been gossiping," Barney retorts, and his voice is weird and he's swaying a little bit in place and Robin realizes he's drunk. Drunker than she is. "And I'm  _nice_ ," he adds. "I can be nice."

Robin decides to leave them to their bickering; it seems like a matter of time before they bring her into it, but when she starts to edge away from the table, and then his hand is on her arm. It's like a jolt, hot and unpleasant; he's not really gripping, she could easily pull away, but he's touching her and stopping her from leaving. "I can be  _nice_ ," Barney says, and there's something in his tone — not just the alcohol, but something kind of… annoyed, maybe? Tense? She breaks free of his grip. He's drunk. It doesn't seem to bother him. "Here," he says, pushing the rum bottle at her. "Have some rum."

She doesn't know what he's playing at, if this is some kind of fight or if he's just super drunk or… Rum usually doesn't have a bad effect on him, it makes him gregarious, but she has no idea what else he's been drinking, what he's  _doing_. He's too close. He's standing too close, he's not yelling — he's never yelled, he's pretended she doesn't exist, but now he's not, and why? Because he's drunk? Because…? "I don't want any," she says, pushing her hair away from her face, taking a step back.

"Okay," he says easily. He doesn't pursue her; he turns back towards Ted, but Ted has vanished, left without them noticing.

Barney turns back to her. He looks a little confused; then he frowns at her. "I can be nice," he says again, pointedly, with emphasis she doesn't understand. He's drunk. She doesn't know what he's thinking, what he's doing, and this is the first time they've spoken without — yelling, okay, sure — in months. He was looking at her in the apartment, whenever she looked at him.  _He didn't run away_ , Lily said when she did.

Is he trying to act differently around her?

Trying to be nice?

She doesn't know why. No good will come of this. Their divorce papers are sitting in her hotel room.

 _Every time we talk, you yell at me_. Like some weird mantra in her head. Like maybe he is trying something, and maybe it's useless, and maybe he's right, because he ignores and she yells and maybe trying something will help, maybe it'll save the group, maybe it'll … something, and there's another thing she's realizing too. Robin takes a deep breath. "Okay," she says. "Give me some of that rum."

The other thing she's thinking: when he gets drunk enough, Barney starts telling the truth.

 

 

 

They drink.

First she drinks so that it won't feel awkward, and she wonders if Barney is doing the same thing, drinking social inhibitions away, or something? That's a long word, inhibitions. They drink some more, and it's kind of quiet, they have nothing to say, but then somehow one of them says something — because of all the costumes, Robin says,  _it's weird to see you not in a costume,_ and he says  _you're not either, my suit is vintage_ , and he shed his jacket somewhere which is fine, because he looks good in a vest.

They're drinking, and suddenly it's easy to talk, which is funny, because why would it be? Barney's a fun drunk, and they're talking about costumes and drinking and nothing  _weird_ or  _scary_ , and Robin's thinking, I gotta stay sober so I can ask him questions, but when she stops drinking it feels weird and scary.

So she drinks some more, until it stops.

It's not like that night a few weeks ago, or… however long ago it was, it feels like yesterday, three days max, but it's not. She's not stressed and crying and stuff; she's the  _nice_ kind of drunk, the  _forget everything_  drunk. She tells him this.

 _Yeah!_ he says,  _fuck everything drunk!_

Last time they were this drunk together, they were fucking, she almost says, she giggles to herself as she thinks it, but then she's thinking about the bad stuff and so she empties the rum so that she stops, because this is a relief and Lily and Ted and Marshall and Tracy aren't bugging them, telling them to do anything; they're just sitting on the roof with three… now two… bottles of alcohol and laughing at costumes and it's nice, it's fun, it's a  _relief_ , it's stuff, and Robin pops open the bottle of vodka and says  _to drinking_! and they knock their bottles together.

And they drink.

 

 

 

They're drinking, and she's talking about Patrice, and he's laughing and cheering her on, the  _flowers_ Patrice bought, and Cal  _likes her_ , and she's not reaaaaally sure Barney knows who Calvin is, but he cheers on the budding romance and boos the budding romance and they debate the budding romance, or maybe it's just a fake romance, or maybe Calvin isn't into her at all? Barney says: "I think Patrice has a thing for  _you_ ," and adds, " _hot_ ," and she laughs and says  _gross_ and they pass a bottle back and forth, talking about their jobs and lives.

 

 

 

" _Pen-cil_?" Barney says. "Ugh, I'm gonna hurl."

"You should hurl on Ted," Robin says.

"I  _should_ hurl on Ted!"

"And if you get really sick —" she breaks off, chortling, "you should take some Penny-cillin!"

"I'm taking this bottle away from you, and not giving it back until you apologize," Barney says, and she ends up half climbing onto him to relinquish it from his vile clutches.

They're drinking.

 

 

 

They're walking up the street, kinda weaving, Robin thinks they're looking for a cab but they're in Central Park now, and that's weird. "They're like, gigantic beady-eyed rodents," she's saying. A taxi speeds by and they don't hail it. She can smell his cologne. It's hard to walk in her heels.

"Bunnies aren't  _rodents_ ," he says. She reaches for his flask and he holds it out of her sight. "No. No! Bunnies are soft and — no, Robin!"

"They've got beady little eyes!" They scuffle for the flask, and he's trying to keep her from it because he's a  _rude asshole who likes rabbits_ , but she wins, because she's Robin Goddamn Scherbatsky.

"And ears! Fluffy ears!" Barney walks into a trashcan, corrects himself, straightens his jacket.

"I'm just saying, birds are better pets." She hands back the flask when he makes grabby hands for it, giggling at the gesture.

"You just think so because  _you're_ a bird." He giggles. "Get it? 'Cause a bird is a  _lay-dee_ , and you're  _Robin_."

"Yup," she says, snapping the  _p_  sound. "I pick birds. No, I pick dogs. Then birds."

"I always wanted a rabbit," Barney says, with such frank realization in his voice that Robin's kinda impressed at how  _deep_ he is. Wanting stuff.

"You're  _soooo_ weird," she says.

"We had Fluffernutter for two weeks," he says.

Robin frowns. "Gimme the flask."

He does.

 

 

 

There's still no cab, and now the flask is empty, but it's okay because they found a sports bar.

They sit at a table and order shots and Robin is drunk, so drunk, so happy, because he's laughing as he talks about something, and either she's really drunk or he is because it makes no sense, it's something about Paula and a woman named Sam, or maybe it's a guy? Or maybe it's his mom's boyfriend? But he's telling this story, cracking himself up, and, oh! It's a story about Ted! and Robin laughs along, and he's undone the first couple of buttons on his shirt and loosened his tie, and his face is flushed from the alcohol and he mussed his hair and he looks good and happy and she feels happy and she hopes she looks good.

"And then,  _then_ , okay, he — Ted walks in, and he —" Barney laughs so hard he can't finish his sentence for like five minutes, he tries to take a sip of his beer and chokes on it, "he says to Paula,  _I don't know, it looks like a jacket to me_!"

Robin doesn't get it, but she smiles and smiles until her cheeks hurt.

 

 

 

They get kicked out of the bar at last call for being "intoxicated," but they're near home, and they walk three more blocks before they finally spot a taxi, but then it's too late. So they yell at the cab,  _suck it asshole,_ and  _we walked here dumbass_ , and it's really hilarious for some reason, even as the driver gives them the finger and speeds away.

They stand close in the elevator, still laughing about it, each of them attempting to squeeze any last drops out of the empty flask. Robin's head is spinning and spinning and she can barely stand, and she's sad they've arrived home because this night has turned out to be fun, so fun, and she doesn't want it to stop, they pile into the apartment and Barney stumbles over to the bar and she turns to check her hair in the mirror by the door —

This isn't her apartment.

She sees herself in the mirror, her eyes hooded, cheeks red, and this isn't her apartment behind her, this isn't her anything, this is Barney's apartment, how did they end up here? She feels a sudden jolt of anxious sobriety, her mind spinning into gear, trying to remember — the roof, a bar, walking Manhattan together,  _this is fun! No, I mean — I like having fun with you_ , drinking, drinking to forget, drinking to make him tell the truth, drinking to be honest —

She sees him approaching her in the mirror, still smiling in a blurry, unfocused way.

She turns around.

The truth is that Robin turns around and says, "How did we get here?",and she doesn't know what she means when she does.

He's not holding anything in his hands; he's standing very close, they're standing very close in his living room, his home, their home, and then he's holding her in his hands, and he smells like alcohol and cigarettes and cologne, and he doesn't answer, he doesn't answer, he doesn't say anything, and he has her face cupped in his hands and he asks, "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," she says. "But I…" he's standing too close, she can feel the heat from his body, the heat from his hands, his breath is heavy with alcohol and voice is low and quiet and she doesn't know what she means, what she's asking, why she's thinking — and then she's kissing him, and her mouth is on his and his mouth opens to hers and she's kissing him and he's kissing her and his thumb is on her cheekbone and her fingers clench on his shoulders and they're kissing, they're kissing, he's pulling her against him and she's pushing them across the living room to the bedroom door.


	10. — time in new york

 

 

 

 

_The bed is soft beneath her and enormous around her, and he's over her, kissing her, his fingers everywhere, palms rough over her stomach, nails catching clumsy in the hem of her jeans: he laughs unevenly and finds the button. Her hands trace his shoulders and arms and chest and sides, pulling him closer and feeling, grasping at every part of him. They kiss — and he breaks away, pushes at her jeans, stops, pulls at her shirt — she helps, undoes the top two buttons and then stops, runs her hands through his hair, pulls him back to her, wraps herself around him, holds him closer, closer — she needs him closer, needs to feel him against her again, once again, needs it, needs to —_

_She hitches her legs around him; he pulls her away, laughing, saying something softly, reaching between them — she laughs and pulls him back and turns them and sits astride him, bends down, her hair falling over her shoulders, his hand tangling in it, brushing her ear, watch snagging on a strand, she kisses him —_

_Tastes the liquor in his mouth —_

_And he looks up at her and tells her the truth._

 

 

 

**August 8th, 2015.**

**Rivas, Nicaragua**

 

 

Robin wakes up alone. Her body feels clammy, damp with sweat; her heart is racing, and the crisp sheets are tangled around her body. She thinks she was having some sort of bad dream — wisps of something, her job, nothing was going right, she was running trying to fix… something. The fragments of it fade away fast. It's only when she rolls over that she realizes she's alone in the massive resort bed; that some of the stickiness she feels is from her surroundings and not her dream: the doors at the foot of the bed leading to the terrace are wide open, sending a humid wave into the bedroom.

Her heart still pounding a little from her dream, Robin sits up in bed, pulling the sheets loose from her body. She can't tell what time it is — something about the country's weather, the heat, the resort itself, placid and perfect, messes with her internal clock. It's dark, but the half moon is out and the sky is clear; she can see, dimly, onto the dark terrace, the shape of the daybed, the poles of the deck's railing, the red ember of Barney's cigarette, the smell of it drifting into the room along with the scent of the ocean and green smell of the tropical resort foliage. The balcony faces the ocean, but Barney's facing left, looking out towards the jungle.

She calls out "hey" at the same time he seems to notice she's sitting up, shifting his weight and turning his body towards the suite; she can't see his face clearly, watches him bend and stub out his cigarette in the ashtray on the wicker table. "Hey," he says back. "You're awake? Are you gonna hurl?"

She hadn't thought about it until just now, and takes a quick stock of her body, searching for nausea, that tight, rolling feeling that's sent her racing to kneel in front of the toilet four times in the last day; not exactly the way she'd hoped to be spending her weekend getaway. "No," she says. "I guess it was just a 24-hour bug."

"Oh, good," Barney says with real relief. "I was worried you'd be hurling on the plane, and I'd have to listen to it."

"Yeah,  _listening_ to it is the worst part," Robin says sarcastically.

"It totally is," he says, and she can't tell if he's serious or not.

There's a slight lull — neither of them say anything; he doesn't come to bed. Now that she's a little more awake, the balmy heat doesn't feel so bad on her skin. She wraps the sheet around herself and pads out to the terrace, tucking the edge of the cloth under her armpit.

"How long have you been awake?" she asks, looking out towards the solid blackness of the ocean, then sitting on the daybed. The stars are bright overhead, the half moon low on the horizon. There's a faint breeze, the sound of the waves, but otherwise everything is quiet and still.

"A little while," he says. "I didn't wake you up, right?"

"No," she says. She chuckles under her breath. "I had a nightmare, if you can believe it."

He turns towards her, his body seeming to sway as he shifts his weight. "Like a bad dream? What about?"

"It was…" she grasps for fragments, already blurry and mostly gone. "I was at work. And Sandy was… missing, or something, and I had to go on air in a minute and the phone kept ringing, so I was trying to answer the phone and find Sandy, I was running everywhere, and I'm about to go on air…" she laughs softly. "Classic stress dream. I woke up in a panic, all,  _I'm late for work_!"

She laughs, shakes her head. "So now I'm wide awake and thinking about Sandy Rivers, which is  _not_ my favorite way to spend my early morning hours." She suppresses a yawn.

"Ditto," he says, turning back towards the ocean for a second. "But, uh, why are you having dreams about work? We're on  _vacation_."

"I know," she says, frowning up at him. "Dude, it's not like I can control my dreams."

"Right," he says. She hears him suck in a breath, and then he comes over, sits next to her on the daybed, skin pale in the dark. She can feel the heat from his body, even through the humid night air; she leans against his shoulder. "I, uh," he says, his hands between his knees, but he doesn't finish his sentence right away, and she wonders again why he was out here smoking, why he's awake at all. She knows he still smokes a little when he's stressed, but as far as Robin is aware he's nowhere near needing midnight cigarette breaks.

And why would he be stressed, anyway? This place is literally perfect. She listens to the waves break over shore. It's hypnotic, rhythmic,  _wooosh_  in and out, and she falls half asleep just sitting and listening to it, waiting for him to finish his sentence, his shoulder warm and dry under her cheek. She blinks a few times, realizes he never finished his sentence. "Hey," she says, moving her arm between them, resting it on his thigh. Traces her fingers slightly higher, lets them drift towards his knee. Going for something like  _comforting_ , not sexual. "What are you doing up?"

"I couldn't sleep," he shrugs — she feels the movement against her cheek. "I kept thinking about stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Stuff."

She traces her fingers back up his leg, and he shifts a little. "What kind of stuff?" she asks softly. "Hey, are you okay?"

"I'm awesome," he says automatically. She waits for him to say more, and after a second, he adds: "I was just thinking of, um, you know, you…" he says, and it's weird, but he trails off.

"Me?"

"This vacation is nice, right?" he asks. "You're glad you took it."

"I am," she says, half wondering if he was worried that she didn't, which is ridiculous because they're in a beach-front condo in a tropical paradise. She's barely even bothered to check her work e-mail since they arrived.

After a second or two, he adds: "I've always wanted to come here."

"Mm," she says sleepily. "This resort is incredible. I definitely need another massage before we leave tomorrow. Or five of them."

He sighs loudly and a bit dramatically, and just like that she knows that the moment of seriousness is gone. She doesn't know if it meant anything; it's really hard to read Barney sometimes. Probably it didn't. "Right?" he says. "That volcanic clay stuff was the best."

"You're forty percent girl," she says.

"Robin, it was  _volcanic_ clay. It came from a volcano. That makes it  _awesome_."

Because it's dark and no one will notice, she turns her head enough to press a kiss to his shoulder. "Come on," she says. "Let's go back to bed."

"You should, in case you're still sick," he says. "Seriously, all the barfing is really ruining this vacation." He doesn't say it, but she can still hear the implied  _no_.

"Aww, I love you too," she says dryly. "Come on, Barn, let's go to bed." She traces her fingers up his leg. "We can mess around a little."

"Mess around?" he repeats, intrigued.

She takes a second to weigh her sleepiness against her options. "We can make out."

"Third base or home," he says immediately, unsurprisingly.

"Second. You can touch my boobs." She presses them against his arm, through the thin fabric of the bed sheet. He sucks in a breath, and she can imagine his eyes narrowing at her in thought.

"Hand stuff," he says.

"Ooh, you're such a romantic," Robin laughs. She stands up, leans over him to kiss him sleepily: he responds, pushing it a little, and it's ridiculous, because they've been married two years and he still leaves her a little dizzy. "Hand stuff," she breathes, giving in, and he grins up at her. "Someday your libido is going to catch up with your age," she threatens.

"No it won't," he says happily, standing, sliding his hands around her waist, up her sides to undo the sheet. She laughs, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to kiss him.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks seriously, or as seriously as she can when his mouth is on her neck and hands are significantly lower.

"Everything's awesome," he says, and this time sounds like he means it.

 

 

**November 1st, 2016.**

**Upper East Side, Manhattan.**

 

 

 

Barney wakes up.

It's all he can do to open his eyes, the pain is so bad — shooting through every inch of his body, multiplied by every movement he makes. His phone is ringing and all he wants in the world, for the rest of his life, is to make it stop. It has to stop. Has to. He has to… stop it. With all his strength he rolls onto his side, reaches desperately for his bedside table — no phone.

The fucking synth is digging holes into his skull; he buries his face into his pillow, but the ringing persists. He's sweating and his whole body is cramped up. This has to be death. This isn't just a hangover; he's dying. Actually dying. This is hell, this is him atoning for —

The room is suddenly, blessedly quiet.

Barney relaxes, his face still buried under his pillow, pressed against the bedsheet, where it's dark and soft and quiet and the pillowcase smells like dryer sheets and Robin's —

Everything twists, goes sharp, his heart starting to race, and he's suddenly wide awake. He pushes the pillow off and sits up as quickly as he can, given the throbbing, stabbing pain of his hangover, looking around — but she's gone. She left. It's all a haze, a see-sawing blur of memory, before the party, the party, walking, talking, kissing — her hand, and then —

His heart is racing. His mouth is dry, his stomach heaves — he swings himself out of bed shakily, remembering her hands, her fingers doing up her buttons, her head shaking, eyes bright and wet —

He makes it to the bathroom in time to hurl, probably from the alcohol, maybe from that memory, not the good parts but the rest, the way she'd looked at him and said  _this is a mistake_  —

The way she'd said it again.

He throws up into the toilet bowl and rubs his nose, his lips, his breath shaky and eyes watery from the bile, from other things — He waits it out, his breath shaky but he doesn't vomit again, so he flushes and climbs to his feet and stands with his eyes closed, forehead resting against the wall, the cool bathroom tile, until he can almost think again, until he can muster the energy to wash out his mouth.

He's wearing socks. And pants. An unbuttoned shirt. He sheds it all, grabs a pair of pajama pants from the junk dresser in the bedroom. Pajama pants aren't too bad; he can wear them and pretend he's about to get dressed, put on a nice three piece Brioni or a double-breasted Prada.

The phone is ringing again, piercing right past his ear and into his brain, past his dreams of suits and real clothes and the way being dressed right makes him feel, sharp and icy cool — fucking phone, fuck the phone, he finds it just outside the bedroom door, tangled up in last night's vest. He answers just to stop it ringing — "Go for me," he snaps, listing against the wall for support.

"Barney?" Lily says, and he can tell just from one word that she's  _mad._ "Where the hell are you? You said you'd be here  _two_   _hours_ ago,  _and_ you vanished from the party last night, and if you screwed things up I swear to god —"

"What time is it?" he asks, because there were far too many different things in that sentence to keep track of in his head.

"Almost noon," she says.

He groans, his stomach plunging into his knees, his head throbbing with his pulse. The hearing is at two. They were supposed to meet up and he was gonna help Lily get the kids off to school, because Lily thinks playing with his niece and nephew will relax him before court, which… isn't wrong, but  _is_  lame so he's not gonna mention it.

"Get your butt over here," Lily says, in her  _meaning business_ voice.

"I can't," he says. With effort he pushes himself upright off the wall, shuffles towards the kitchen. "I have a hangover. I'll call Ross and let him know I can't make —"

"Barney Stinson," Lily thunders, and he almost throws up at how mad and loud she sounds, his whole body heaving itself away from her, "it's your own damn fault you're hungover. Now get your ass up to Amsterdam."

" _Lil_ ," he whines, terrified for his life but also in a lot of pain. He freezes when he reaches the living room, when he sees what's on his kitchen counter, beside the sink.

She's saying something like  _blah blah your fault blah blah I don't care_ , but he can't hear her anymore.

"I gotta go," he says, hanging up. He stares at the glass on the counter, edges closer to it, his palm bracing against the cool granite. It's a glass filled with a grey-ish sludge, thick and shiny with grease, a piece of paper held in place under it. He picks up the glass, lifts the paper — it's thin, a receipt, twelve words, one letter in black pen.

 

> _I couldn't find Tantrum, so I used 7Up._
> 
> [crossed out, illegible.]
> 
> _Talk to you soon._
> 
> _R._

He stares at it, holds it, his body — head — tight, different from his hangover pain, it's hard to remember how to breathe or think, there's a smudge from the crossed out part, it looks too small to be more than a couple of letters, his head pounds, he can't figure it out. He reads it a second time, but secret messages and secret meanings —  _talk to you soon,_ his brain keeps stuttering on that one, and finally he sets it back down on the counter, dizzy; picks up and drains the glass.

It's just as disgusting as all his friends have ever told him it is.

But it helps.

 

 

 

Barney takes three steps into the apartment and collapses face-first onto Marshall and Lily's sofa.

"Oh, there you are," Lily says from the kitchen.

He grunts and covers his face with a throw pillow. The wool collar of his sporty (awful) jacket scratches against his neck, but it  _is_ warm and kinda comfy. He presses himself into the sofa and moans in the most pathetic way he can muster: the hangover cure and a handful of painkillers  _helped_ , but he still feels foggy and disgusting. Paula's Outfit Of The Day isn't helping.

"If you think I feel sorry for you, I totally don't," Lily says; he can hear her moving towards him and peeks out from under the pillow at her.

"Lil, Halloween was  _yesterday_ ," he says. "Why are you still dressed like a whale?" He smirks. "Oh, wait, you're  _pregnant_."

"Cute," she says, her eyes narrowing at him from somewhere above her enormous stomach. She looks like she's about to pop — literally pop, like a parade balloon — but Barney's pretty sure there's another couple of weeks to go. She holds a mug out towards him, and he turns over, pushes himself slightly more upright — body sprawled out over the sofa, an arm rest propping up his head — and takes it from her. It's coffee, black and strong. He winces after his first sip.

Lily settles herself into the chair next to the sofa, facing him. It takes her a solid minute. "You're not gonna have that thing  _now_ , are you?" Barney asks with vague apprehension.

"God, I wish," Lily says, rubbing her belly like she's one of those statues in Chinese restaurants. "But Dr Sonya says I have another week." She grimaces down at her stomach.

Barney lies on his stomach and watches her, kinda thinks about it a little bit — not how huge she is, or how huge her boobs are, but about the baby in there, how if there was an x-ray diagram over her there'd be a baby all curled up in her stomach, full grown and mutant looking and kind of cute, squashy red face, some bits of hair, Marvin and Daisy both have dark hair so it'd be pretty cool if this one was a red-head, but brown hair would be good too, or…

His mind does this thing it tries to do sometimes: where he starts to think about something bad and then makes it stop. Babies with dark hair, babies with scrunched up faces and light hair and dark blue eyes —

"Dibs on naming her," Barney says, stopping all the bad thoughts.

Lily narrows her eyes. "Absolutely not.  _He_ is gonna be Mark or Marley Theodore."

" _Marley_?" Barney asks.

"Marshall's idea," Lily confirms, "but I don't know, it's kind of growing on me. It's cute."

"It was a dog in a movie," he says. He thinks a little bit about  _Theodore_. If he had a kid, he'd name that thing after Ted too, probably.

But he doesn't. Which is great.

So.

He clears his throat. "Anyway, that thing's definitely a girl. Trust me," he says to break the pause, sipping his coffee. "I can spot a chick from a mile away." He sits up a little bit more, pushing his feet against the cushions to propel himself upright.

"I don't know," Lily teases, "You and Tracy are the only ones who think so. Marshall, Ted,  _and_ Robin all put their money on  _boy_."

_Robin_. His hand jerks in a totally casual way, and he almost spills his coffee onto his jacket. Which would be no big loss for the jacket, but still makes him wince.

Lily's eyebrows go up in the midst of his weird little spastic attack. "By the way," she says.

"Dibs on naming the kid," he says again, really fast, and then adds, thinking fast, seeing her eyes narrow and mouth open to interrupt: "It can be a birthday present!"

"That's right, your birthday's coming up," Lily says, distracted. He has to hide a satisfied smile. She leans towards him a little, which can't be easy with her sumo wrestler gut. "Hey, we should all do something! The tenth is a, what, a Thursday? Why don't we have a party on Friday?"

"I don't want a party," Barney says. He feels a twinge, the twinge he always has when he thinks about his birthday and birthday parties — something like  _ugh, older_ (although he's totally still got it) and no one ever comes to his birthday parties which is why mom said Halloween was a party just for him and he could dress up as anything he wanted and he and James can trick-or-treat all by themselves so who needs a birthday party or Matthew Pfanning stealing his NASCAR invitations or — "Birthday parties are  _lame_. What I  _want_ is to name your children."

Lily's lips thin. " _Maybe_  a second middle name," she says.

"First and middle name."

"You can suggest  _a_ middle name and if I like it," Lily shrugs, "maybe."

"I can  _pick_  the first and middle name, no maybe."

"You can pick a middle name, but I have veto powers."

"Both names, you have veto powers."

"Both names, me  _and_  Marshall have veto powers."

"Done," Barney says. He wedges himself upright; they shake on it.  _Marley Theodore_ , he thinks. Yeah, right. He considers  _Marley Barney_ or just  _Barney Jr_ , but he's not sure. He has a week, he'll think it over. He starts to relax —

But Lily doesn't let go of his hand right away. Which is kind of weird: he's left reaching across the gap between the chair on the sofa, her hand digging into his. He looks at her trying to telepathically communicate  _what the hell, Lily_ , until she looks satisfied.

"Okay, buddy," she says, letting go of his hand; he shrinks away a little. This feels ominous. "No more changing the subject. Where did you and Robin vanish off to last night?"

It's about what he expected, but he still feels something get bad and tight inside of him, a knot right where his throat meets his chest, down his torso and into his gut, hot and strong. "Nowhere," he says, avoiding looking at Lily too much. It's a tell, he knows it's a tell, but he can't stop himself, can't make eye contact, can't do anything but skitter away, and it's a tell, it's obvious, but he can't look at Lily, he can't.

_How did we get here_ , Robin had asked him last night, and he'd said something lame back, his mind fuzzy and warm and slip-sliding and everything had been so quiet around them, everything was so quiet in his apartment, it was so quiet, he'd said something lame to stop the quiet, to stop her from thinking, to stop himself from thinking — and then she'd moved forward,  _she_ had, and he'd touched her and she was so soft and warm and all he'd wanted to do was —

And then she'd kissed him.

She had. Robin had.

He pushes it all down.

"Bullshit," Lily is saying flatly. "I saw you two together, giggling up on the roof."

He doesn't know the best way to spin this; his head is still fuzzy. He glances at his watch: if he can stall for another twenty-three minutes, they'll have to leave for the hearing, he won't have to talk about this at all. "I was drunk," he says.

"I'll say," she says. "You went through all the rum  _and_ Marshall says you guys took the good vodka." She raises her eyebrows expectantly. "So?"

So Robin had kissed him. He'd taken her back home — his home, to his place, not theirs — and she'd asked him what they were doing and he knew that was a bad question, but before he could kiss her, she had kissed him, she had pushed at him, she had led them to their — his — bedroom and shirts and hands and mouths and he'd done — he'd said — she'd pushed him down and sat astride him and laughed down and he'd reached and pulled her down and kissed her and licked into her mouth and said —

He doesn't know if it was real, if the memory of the weight of her body can be trusted, her laughing at him, her eyes and mouth and hands, her  _hand_  — he doesn't know what to say about it, doesn't want to say  _anything_ , because it wasn't real, it didn't happen, he knows it. Her weight on his hips was a hallucination; the taste of alcohol a fever dream. Her hand —

Why had he said it?

"So, nothing," he says, brazening it out. "We went back to my place and nothing happened. She sobered up and she left."

"And that's everything?" Lily asks shrewdly.

He stares dispassionately at the ceiling, but everything is still tightly coiled inside of him. "What do you want me to say happened?" He doesn't mean to, but some of his feelings leak out when he says it, his voice tense, his hand reaching into his jacket pocket to touch the receipt there.

"Don't get snappy with me," she says. She sighs loudly. "Barney, I'm trying to help. If you guys could just  _talk_ , I know that…"

"Yeah, talking's not the problem here," he interrupts. She hasn't drunk dialed him since last time, which is good. Which is awful. Which is good, because it makes him feel stuff, and remember stuff, and think about stuff — the way she'd looked at him the first time and every time after that, not the self-centered regret he's used to from his one-night stands, the lip-biting  _why did I end up here_ hesitance — the way she'd look at him in beds or in the bar or in their bathroom when it was still  _theirs_ and they thought she might have a baby.

An  _oh, Barney_  look.

A  _don't be ridiculous_ look.

A look of pity.

He'd never noticed before, because there is nothing about his life that could be pitied or looked down on, not really — and in the past six months, the past year, it's been one realization after another. The way she'd look at him from the next seat of the plane, wondering why he was there, why she allowed him to be. How she'd look when he messed up, or not look at him, or the way she'd sigh when she was mad, or the way she'd say  _when my feet touch the floor_ or the way she'd convinced him one summer that they weren't  _really_ in love, wouldn't it be more fun to hook up in secret and not let anyone know?

Wouldn't it be more fun if it isn't real?

He's awesome, and he'd loved her. He hadn't thought about it.

_I can't stand you_ , she'd said.

He'd realized that in inches, over months and years. The sex was good, the sex was always good, she'd wanted  _that_ , no question, but she'd never… not really… His fists clench on his thighs.

What's there for them to talk about?

But she hadn't answered his question when she'd called.

Lily's talking, but he isn't listening to her: it's kindergarden stuff about how talking solves everything and love and peace and bullshit, but then he hears her name and focuses in. "— and Robin's been a wreck; you saw her take off yesterday. She hasn't dealt with any of this at all, I think she's trying to convince herself she's unaffected, you know how she gets. She pretends she's fine until she has a huge breakdown-y panic attack. Or…" Lily trails off meaningfully.

He feels that feeling again, pinches his tongue between his teeth, pushes the hot ball in his throat away. "Or Ted swoops in with a rescue?" he asks. That's mean and he feels it as he says it, but he can't stop himself from forming the words. He knows his best friend doesn't do it on purpose, wouldn't do that to hurt him or whatever, but Ted's eight percent woman and loves to be the rescuing hero, and Robin…

He isn't looking at Lily, but the fact that she doesn't reply for a couple of seconds means he's surprised her. "or — or you do," she says.

"Or I don't," he says. He presses his tongue against the ridges of his teeth. Every muscle in his body is tense. "Hey, you know what would be a great name for the girl you're gonna have?  _Marjorie Awesome_. Get it? Because it sounds like  _majorly_ , and —"

"Would you cut it out already?" Lily asks, lurching forward in her chair; he knows because he looks down to her, finally, surprised by her outburst. "Stop changing the subject!"

"I'm not changing the subject," he says, rolling his eyes, but he knows she knows he's lying.

"No," she says. "You know what you're doing? You're  _covering_." That's the same thing, he thinks, and it's wrong, but then she says something that stops him interrupting: "You know what you are? You're scared. You came over yesterday gun's blazing and full of stupid plans, and your plans didn't work."

"I didn't —"

" _Please_ ," Lily says, and he shuts up at her look. "Of course you had a plan. You probably thought you could get Robin drunk and  _hook up_ and everything would be hunky-dory the second you fell into bed together, and that's a  _stupid ass plan_  and of course it didn't work, and now you're upset because it failed and because even if it was a stupid plan, it hurts. It hurts that she rejected you, and it hurts because you can't admit you wanted it, and it hurts because—"

"That wasn't what I was doing!" he protests, and swallows and clenches and unclenches his fingers, because it  _was_ , because Lily's  _right_ , because Lily had called him over and said  _Robin will be coming to the party, she doesn't know you'll be there_ and he'd known right in that second what Lily was thinking, planning, and she'd known in the same second what  _he_ was, because one of the things he likes about Lily is she thinks in the same way as him. Lily had wanted them to have a meet-cute at the party, talk about their feelings, get back together. Lily had known if she told him, he'd be there with a plan, too. But that hadn't been his plan, that hadn't been his plan until he'd heard Robin and Ted, heard what Robin had said, and then —

He was going to show her.

Prove to her, prove to her that she'd liked him  _once_ , wanted him once, but then they were drinking and he'd forgotten, then they were at his place and he'd remembered, but she'd kissed  _him_ , she'd pulled  _him_ , she'd —

And he'd forgotten.

"Like hell it isn't!" Lily seethes. "You wanted to get her into bed because —" She looks at him, he looks back, and Lily's face crumples and straightens out, "because that way she still cares about you, kinda, but of  _course_ that wasn't going to work!" He feels dizzy, empty, the blunt way she puts it. "That's the single stupidest idea you've ever had! You still have feelings for her, and she needs to  _know_ that, Barney!"

"Well,  _ha ha_ ," he says sharply, feeling twisty and empty and that  _feeling_  again, that goddamn  _feeling_  — "Joke's on you,  _Lil_ , joke is totally on you, because — you know what I feel about her?" That twisting feeling, sharp and hot and angry, hearing her and Ted talking, her calling him at three in the morning, the looks she'd give him, the yelling she'd do — how she'd called him a month ago and he'd thought maybe they were good but she'd just wanted to talk about their  _divorce lawyer_ , joking and happy because finally she was rid of him.

"I'm  _mad_ ," he says. "I am  _angry_. I didn't go to your stupid party to cry over Robin and stand under her window with a boombox or a musical instrument, I went because I'm mad, I probably hate her, and," he breaks off because he sees her again, remembers her, the feel of her laughing — "I don't want to  _get back together_  with her, I wanted — you know what I wanted?" He pauses, looks Lily in the eye, "I wanted to fuck her and walk out on her."

She flinches, and he should feel better about the wetness in her eyes than he does, take more than a thin, sick satisfaction from letting Lily down. "That's not true," Lily says, her voice low but steady. He drops his head back against the sofa in exasperation, then jumps to his feet, needing to move, to escape her watery gaze. He paces behind the sofa, away. "You might want that to be true, but that's not true. You're  _scared_. You want to be mad because then you don't have to be scared, you don't have to admit you have feelings and that it matters to you that she turned you down."

"She didn't turn me down!" he says, turning back towards her, and he catches her wiping at her eyes with her palm and feels a twinge of feelings when he does. "She totally —" He's never had a problem talking about this stuff, but somehow his mouth can't form the words, so he pulls himself together, raises his chin. He wishes he was properly dressed, wearing real clothes instead of just a button-down and a wool autumn jacket, wants that layer of protection and awesomeness, but he stares her down. "Let's just say I rounded third," he leers, can't quite bring himself to wink.

Lily's mouth drops open. "What?"

"No home run," he continues, "but I slid onto third and didn't even have to," he raises his eyebrows, Lily's shocked face giving him strength, " _repay the favor_ ," he says meaningfully, and his hand darts into his pocket; he pulls out the receipt.  _"And_ she wrote me a note. She wrote a note, it says,  _talk to you soon_." His mouth stretches; he realizes he's smiling, he stops. "So check it. I win. My plan worked. There was hand stuff and you're  _wrong_ , I'm not  _feeling_ anything, I got everything I wanted and I still hate her and I didn't even have to get her off to get  _mine_ , so —" He doesn't quite know how to finish his speech, he looks down at the receipt again. His fingers and jacket have smudged the ink, he smooths it out carefully. "Oh," he adds, as casually as she can, "also, she said she wants to be friends."

Lily sits up, wedging her elbows back for leverage. "She did?"

"Yup," he says, folding the receipt, putting it back in his pocket with care. "So I win. I don't feel anything, and Robin — yeah, she begged me to  _be friends_ , and I said I'd think about it and she left. I win."

Lily doesn't say anything, and he waits for a few seconds, then has to turn away, touching the note in his pocket, crossing the living room to the nursery, moving back towards the sofa. He feels riled up, jangly, tries to calm himself down, shut it off. He sits down on the sofa, and Lily still hasn't spoken. He wants to break the silence, he looks at his watch. "And —" he says, deciding to go into more detail —

"So why are you mad?" Lily says.

He forgets what he was about to say. "What?"

"Why are you mad? You said you hate Robin. But it sounds like you got everything you wanted." He's definitely not imagining the anger in her voice, but he doesn't really know what to make of it yet. He doesn't really know  _what_ to say.

"Yeah," he says. "I did. I do. Robin's —" Sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to him. Looking at him with pity in hotels and airplanes, wondering why she bothers. "I wanted to win," he says. "So there. I win. Take  _that_ , Robin."

Lily drops backwards into her chair with a loud, angry noise. "You don't hate Robin," she says. He rolls his eyes hard enough that he feels it in his skull. "You might not want to admit it, but you're still in love with her," she says.

His phone buzzes in his other pocket, and he's never been more grateful for a distraction. He pulls it out pointedly, freezes a little bit when he sees the caller. He hasn't put her into his address book, doesn't want the name to appear for anyone to see, but he's memorized her phone number even if she's only texted him half a dozen times.

 

> _I've been thinking about what you said._
> 
> _And I think you're right._
> 
> _But you know it won't change anything._

Lily is saying: "You only think you're mad because that's the easier feeling. The less scary feeling. But if you and Robin did hook up it wasn't out of  _revenge_ or  _winning_ and you know it. I think even she knows it."

"I don't care if it was a pity fuck," he says, his gut clenching up. He types:  _So can we meet?_

"It wasn't a pity fuck," Lily says. "Robin loves you, too." His whole body goes cold and kind of numb. His phone buzzes in his hand, but he can't make out the words. Everything's fuzzy. Lily sighs. "Did you think at all about  _why_ she'd do this?"

"We're gonna be late for the hearing," he says, his voice tight.

 

> _I can't this week._
> 
> _Next week? The 10th?_

"Right," Lily says reluctantly.

 

> _10th is my birthday_ , he types.
> 
> _Oh. Happy birthday!_
> 
> _How about the 14th?_

He stares at that text for a while. Types  _okay_.

"Wanna give me a hand, here?" Lily asks, and Barney realizes he's still staring at his phone. He has that dizzy, far away feeling again, where his head is spinning and numb.

"Sure," he says, swallowing, putting his phone away. He stands, knocking into the coffee table, disoriented. He goes over to the armchair and gives Lily a hand to pull herself up with.

"Who were you texting?" she asks, her eyes narrow.

"Robin," he says. It slides out easily, and he blinks in mild surprise. "Because she wants to be friends. We're friends now." Lily's frowning, rubbing her hand along her back in discomfort. She doesn't notice, and he bites back the urge to keep talking, add more to it.

"Be careful," she says.

"I thought you wanted us to talk and get along. What was that whole lecture about, then?" He buttons his autumn jacket up as Lily shuffles over to the coat rack, wraps a scarf around her neck. He watches her struggle to pull on her coat, and touches the phone in his pocket. No new texts. He thinks of sending one of his own.

"I know what  _I_ want," she says, frowning at him for checking his phone and not helping her with her coat. "but I don't think you do."

"Of course I do," he says. "I want —" He doesn't know. He doesn't know how to finish that sentence. He wants to win, he wants to see Robin — wants to see her beg for him, not sexually, but  _want_ him, want him back, wants to have that power, just once. He wants to see her, just see her, just talk to her, like they did last night. He wants to be angry at her. He wants to win. He wants to — be friends with her, be with her, hurt her, never see her again. He doesn't know.

He doesn't know what he wants.

It's not like that with his other exes. He has pretty good memories of Quinn, and he feels bad about how things went with Nora but it doesn't make him feel sick, keep him up at night. He doesn't think at all about his hookups, not even that student of Ted's. Even Shannon's memory, by now, leaves him tense but not —  _confused_ , not like this.

He doesn't want to be confused. He wants her to — to want him, to need him, to like him. To not be angry because she doesn't. To win, to prove to her she does, he wants to not be so tense all the time, to not have to choke back every emotion and word and be so  _lame_ , just to keep from saying or doing something he'll regret. He wants her to come home with him and not leave after.

He wants to make her take it back, take back  _I can't stand you_ , take back all the pity and the  _looks_ and take back knowing that he'd let her down and fucked up and take back all the times Ted had to ride in on his horse because he doesn't know how to take care of anyone.

He wants her to never look at him and sigh ever again.

"Robin wants to be friends," he says, and shrugs in an exaggerated way as if to say  _well, whatever_. He hasn't decided what he thinks about that yet, hasn't let himself think of that yet. Her skin hot and soft to the touch, the soft sound she'd made when he'd gotten his hands under her shirt and up the curve of her spine.

"You can't do that," Lily says. He frowns at her. "I mean it. You two can't just pretend you're best friends again, like nothing ever happened between you, the way you did  _last_ time you broke up."

He knows that; he said that to Robin, that day in Paula's office. But that was before Robin said she wanted to be friends. "Why not?" he asks sourly, not liking being told what to do. They used to be good friends. They used to be good at being friends. And if Robin wants it — and maybe he won't get angry and confused when he thinks of her, if they're friends —  _friends_ he can do. Barney is an awesome friend. The best.

"Because you're still mad at her and she's still hurt by you. That won't just go away. Even if it's easier to act friendly, even if it feels like it hurts less, it doesn't  _fix_ anything. You know that, right?" Lily pleads, but the more he thinks about it, the more he gets what Robin said last night, the less it feels like a pity-fuck or worse.  _I don't want to be like this all the time. I want — can't we just be friends again_?

He pulls out his phone, pulls up Robin's number, her note in his pocket and her words on a loop in his head. "I'm not seeing the issue here," he says. It's like last time, or the time before. Having her kind of like him is better than…

_Hey_ , he texts.  _Hows your head_? He throws in a couple of emotes for good measure, his lips curling up.

Lily sees him and huffs, rolls her eyes, yanks open the door. "I've told you before, Barney. When two exes decide to just be casual, someone  _always_  winds up getting hurt."

"Yeah," he says, watching the dot-dot-dot text bubble of Robin's text-in-progress back. "Been there, done that."

 

 

 

_It's too much, it's all too much, the alcohol and her, mostly her, heavy against him and smelling so fucking good and tasting like those shots at the bar, her hair falling onto his face and her breasts pressed against him — it's too much, it's too good, she pulls away, grinning crooked, undoing his shirt slow, teasing, he pushes up at her with his hips, grinning, falling back onto the pillow,_

_Plenty of time, she tells him, her mouth curling up, red lips, face flushed. She kisses him again and he runs his hand through her hair, she pulls away a little, still smiling._

_He looks up at her and he's not thinking and it's all too much, too good, he looks up and says the worst thing he possibly can._

_She freezes, her hands on his chest._

_He'd sat up, his head spinning and everything unsteady, his elbow bearing his weight, her legs astride his. He'd moved his hand from her waistband up, feeling dizzy and suddenly sick, overcome with — she's not smiling, she's shifting her weight away, he touches her cheek and she shakes her head._

_Oh my god, she says, and he watches the look in her eye change._

_This is a mistake, she says. No — no, we can't do this._

_She climbs off him, and he doesn't feel happy and drunk anymore, he feels dizzy and cold. She sits on the side of the bed, doing up her buttons. Her feet touch the floor._

_He says her name, and she shakes her head. I take it back_ , _he says, dizzily, drunkenly, like that'll change it, fix it, somehow. Her fingers fumble on the button. She laughs, once, without humor, runs her hand over her eyes._

_This would be a mistake, she says._

_He wants to tell her no, he wants her to change her mind, he doesn't know if it's because he's drunk or if it's feelings of if it's just lust — he says her name again, says don't go._

_One of the three things must come through to her because she turns around, her face flushed and eyes bright._

_I, she says. He tries to reach for her but she won't let him, kisses him but shrugs away from every touch of his hands, her hand hot and dry against his chest, against his belly, against —_

_When it's over, he lies there feeling satisfied and cold and nauseous and dizzy. She sits on the bed, facing away. He moves closer to her, reaches out, touches the jut of her spine through her blouse, runs over it with his knuckles. She shivers._

_Then she begins to speak._


	11. read.

 

> _**B Stinson** _
> 
> 13:35  _How's your head? [winking emote]_
> 
> ( **Read** 11/01/16)

 

She doesn't reply.

He checks his phone six times, tells Lily he's texting her, but she doesn't reply.

Which is cool. Which is fine. They're friends again, and if they're not than he got to have his revenge fuck, his — her sitting on his bed, elbows on her knees, eyes bright and dry — the memory distracts him, he checks his phone as he and Lily walk into court, queue for the metal detectors.  _Read_ , his phone reads.

Message read and ignored.

Whatever. He doesn't care.

He tosses his phone in the little tray with his wallet, and stands and watches Lily struggling to remove her coat and purse, snickering to himself, before she glares and he helps her. "Man, pregnant women are  _useless_ ," he says. Lily smacks his arm.

"I am nine months of hormones and crankiness and this little bastard has been kicking for twenty minutes straight," she says in a low, threatening voice. "You're already on my last nerve, don't think I won't take it out on you."

"C'mon, Lil," he says as exasperated as he can, tossing her coat onto the conveyer and getting back in line for the metal detector. The security guard waves him through and waves Lily through a moment later, and he retrieves his stuff from the tray. No new texts.

"Don't  _c'mon Lil_ me," Lily grumbles. She drapes her coat over an arm and balances her purse on top of it. "You're messing everything up. You can't simultaneously pretend to be friends with Robin again —"

"I am friends with her again," he says petulantly, talking over her.

"—  _and_ brag about how you tricked her into sex. Which is  _gross_. This is  _Robin_ , not some nameless skank no one cares about."

"Lily, that's just rude," he says, trying to ignore the hot coil of anger in his stomach. "Plenty of people care about skanks, and some of them even have names and families."

"You can't have it both ways! You're still hurt and she's still hurt and pretending —"

Barney is walking quickly towards Marini's office in hopes of losing Lily, but she's keeping up pretty well in the crowd. He slows down when he starts to hear her huffing; last thing he needs is for her to go into labor.

"Lily, I don't want to talk about it," he says, his tone final and his fingers clenched tight around his phone.

She drops it, but he's pretty sure it won't last: most of the cab ride had gone like this.  _You're making a mistake, Barney! You still have feelings for her, Barney! Blah blah blah, Barney!_ Whatever happened to the Lily who didn't lecture him and just let him live his life? Besides, she'd never said anything about Robin's feelings, which just struck Barney as kind of… unfair. Not that he cared about her feelings one way or another. But implying that he had them with Robin didn't was kinda… Obviously,  _neither_ of them had feelings. Anymore. Maybe ever.

Luckily, he's pulled out of this downward spiral of thoughts by the sight of Ross and the others, huddled up in a conference outside of the office.

"— We've lost on Lowe, her testimony is in," Marini is saying.

"Only as it pertains to Fisher and Stinson's relationship, surely," Ross asks, looking discomfited.

"All of it," she replies.

"What?" Barney asks, completely forgetting about his annoying Robin feelings.

"Mr Stinson, you made it," Marini says in a flat voice.

"You're a lawyer! You were supposed to keep her out of this!" Barney says, his voice kind of loud in his outrage.

Marini narrows her eyes at him. She's never liked him very much, Barney senses. She's not bad looking for a chick her age, but she also didn't respond to his good looks, charm, or flirting over the summer, so he'd written her off as a frigid bitch even if Ross tells him she's a great lawyer. "You're the one who turned this into a personal fight," she says. "I did everything I could to remove her as a witness."

"Let me talk to her," he says, reaching for his phone.

"You're not talking to her," says Ross. "Not now or ever." Barney opens his mouth to argue, but his handler raises a hand. "No, Barney. You almost blew the case for us last month."

"I was just saying  _hi_ ," he grumbles.

"Who are we talking about?" Lily asks, pushing her way into the circle.

"Witness tampering," Marini sniffs.

Paula steps forward for the first time. "Mrs Aldrin! How are you feeling? Wow, you're ready to pop! Let's all move inside," she says, gesturing at the office. "Mrs Aldrin can sit down and Barney can change."

"I can change clothes?" he asks, brightening immediately. He shrugs out of his sporty fall jacket right there in the hall, starts undoing his polo shirt. Unlike Marini, Paula is great: his favorite member of the legal team by far. She's pretty hot, dyes her hair blonde which means she  _definitely_ is into some stuff, and although she has an awful fashion sense and is making him dress like a hobo or Ted, she's also — wait for it —  _a lesbian._ With a  _wife_! Even though Paula already told him no, he's still holding out hope for a threeway in his future.

Marini huffs into her office first, followed by Barney and Ross — he can see Ross trying to say something to him and tries to ignore it, pulling off his shirt and undoing his belt.

"Enough with the public stripping already," Lily says from behind him as Paula escorts her into the room.

"Please, you know you still want a piece of this," he says, sitting on one of the chairs to remove his shoes. Paula helps Lily onto the loveseat and then goes to the coat closet by the door: she comes back with a garment bag that Barney, now in his boxers, grabs eagerly.

Ross and Marini are at her desk with Foley, another lawyer on the team, who seems to be taken the sudden appearance of everyone in stride. They're bent over the table and speaking quietly — probably about this whole witness mess — he feels a coiled hot thing again and focuses instead on the garment bag.

On the  _suit_.

It takes him three seconds to realize what's wrong. "This isn't a suit!"

"Of course it's a suit," Paula says. "Mrs Aldrin, can I get you something to drink?"

"Do you have any decaf?" Lily asks, settling into the sofa like she's never planning to leave.

"This isn't —" his fingers brush over the inferior fabric, the cheaply made tie, the  _stitching_. "This is  _J-Crew!_ "

"It's Italian wool," Paula says serenely, heading towards the coffee maker.

"Come on Barney," says Lily, looking amused. "A suit is a suit, right?"

"Not right!" Barney unzips the bag and pulls out the clothes: charcoal grey suit, navy blue tie, white shirt… the belt, at least, is leather, although not anywhere near his usual standard. He starts to dress himself, the cheap fabric rubbing his skin and probably giving him a rash. "There's nothing right about this! I thought I was supposed to dress to  _impress_ in court, not  _dress like a middle manager of a box company_."

"Marshall has a lot of suits from J-Crew," Lily says.

"My point exactly," he glowers, buttoning up his shirt.

"You  _are_ dressing to impress," Paula says, coming back over with a mug for Lily and a second that she puts on the coffee table. "Two sugars, splash of milk, right?" He nods reluctantly, not all that appeased that she made him coffee. "We want you to look approachable. Fisher's going to come in there in a twenty thousand dollar suit and Cartier watch; you're going to be the everyman figure."

"And let's face it," Lily pipes up, "Barney's about as far from  _everyman_  as you can get."

He senses she's teasing him but he rises above it. "That's right," he says, tying his tie. "I'm far superior to the average, poorly dressed, loser 'every man' type." He certainly doesn't feel like it, though. His head still aches in a distant way, and his stomach is empty and still a little queasy. He feels exhausted, and probably looks it. "I don't like this suit," he says, doing up the buttons of the jacket to try to hide the shirt underneath.

"You look great," says Paula.

He doesn't believe her, gives her a suffering look as he collapses back into his chair. He takes his coffee and has a couple of sips. It's hot and watery.

Lily looks at him appraisingly. "Is this really going to work? How many people can really tell the difference between a twenty thousand dollar suit and a five hundred dollar one?"

" _I_  —" Barney starts —

"Besides weirdos like Barney," Lily adds. " _I_ sure can't. Shouldn't he be dressing in whatever makes him comfortable?"

Barney perks up. "Yeah, shouldn't I be dressing awesome?" It had started out with blazers, but two weeks ago Paula had started giving him shopping lists and pre-planned  _outfits_. He'd protested, obviously, but Ross had put his foot down. Ross has been his handler at the FBI since… well, since he was 23 and had walked into New York's FBI headquarters with a manila folder clutched in his sweaty hands and been directed to speak with Frank Ross about possible corporate fraud.

At the time he was just looking for a way to get Greg fired, had barely understood the file he'd smuggled out of AltruCell, and had thought once he handed it over to the authorities his work would be done. He was really stupid back then.

Ross was in charge, had been ever since that day. It wasn't like Barney would just do whatever he said, obviously. Any day now he was going to tell Ross what was what and show up in the most expensive suit he could find. He could call whoever he wanted and talk to whoever he wanted and  _do_ whatever he wanted. Who cares what Ross tells him? Or anyone?

He tells himself this, sitting in a chair in an inferior suit.

"No," Paula is saying with a little secret smile. "Actually, quite the opposite. Mrs Aldrin is probably right;  _most_ people aren't going to be able to tell what Barney is wearing. And frankly, it's not like a fashion designer is going to decide this case for us." Barney sighs as loudly and dramatically as he can, slouching in his chair. She's explained this before, and he found it just as stupid then. But Lily is listening intently. "But it  _does_ make  _Barney_  feel uncomfortable."

"You're doing this just to torture him?" Lily asks, sounding impressed.

" _Lil_ ," he whines.

"Respect," says Lily. "In that case, why not stick him in — does Costco make suits?"

"Lily!" he says again, scandalized.

Paula laughs. "The idea is to make him feel vulnerable, not  _torture_ him." Barney glares at her from his seat. It feels weird to be talked about like this, even if she's explained it to him before. It's total bullshit, that's what he thinks. "Greg Fisher is going to go up to the stand like a smarmy rich bastard, he's already dragging Barney through the mud. The  _worst_ possible thing we could respond with is Barney acting the same way back, turn it into a battle of egos. Let's face it, Fisher and Barney aren't completely dissimilar." That was because back when Barney was a kid, he thought Greg was…

He doesn't even let himself continue that thought. "Barney needs to win over the crowd, not with smarm, but by seeming like the kind of guy you can root for."

"Which isn't the easiest thing in the world," Lily says thoughtfully. Barney doesn't bothered retorting. "So you want him to feel uncomfortable so that he isn't on top of his game, so that he comes off as sort of vulnerable?"

"Pretty much," Paula says.

"It's  _stupid_ ," he says. "No one roots for the  _pathetic loser_. People want a  _winner_. Someone awesome. A man the men wanna be and the women wanna  _do_. What up. Dressing me like a cheap loser isn't going to do anything besides make people think I'm pathetic. And who cares about losers?"

"We're not all sociopaths," Lily says. He turns his head to glare at her, but she's looking at him thoughtfully. "I don't know, I see her point. You don't usually make yourself easy to love."

He feels something sharp in his chest, which is weird. "Whatever, you know you want this," he says, gesturing over his body.

"I mean,  _I_ love you," Lily says, and he feels weirdly warm but doesn't care. "But you're kind of an acquired taste. I'm pretty sure I hated you for the first couple of years we were hanging out. Opening up a little might actually help you."

"I proposed we do a counter media campaign," Paula says. "Really, Barney has a great background we could  _really_ spin. Single mother, mixed race family, growing up on food stamps on Staten Island — full scholarship to Cornell, accepted into the Peace Corp, dedicated his life to secretly serving his country…"

"It didn't happen like that," Barney says, feeling stung the way he always does when she starts going on about his  _background_ , like it's anything to be proud of. He's proud of his  _adult_ life. The life that Paula wants to totally ignore.

"You went to Cornell?" Lily asks. "I thought you went to MIT. Or some magician school in New Jersey."

"I didn't go to Cornell," he says, staring up at the ceiling. He can still feel Lily's beady gaze boring into his soul, but pretends he can't.

"As I understand it," Paula says, "he was to attend Cornell in the fall of 1994, but at the last minute withdrew his application and attended CUNY Manhattan."

" _Paula_ ," he whines. "Can you just?" He feels Lily staring at him and hates it, feels something like anxiety or weakness or whatever leeching thing these clothes are supposed to be giving him working. If this is vulnerability, he hates it.

"But Cornell's a really good school," Lily says. "Ooh, did you not wanna leave home? Were you gonna miss your mom too much?" She's teasing, grinning at him, but he feels tight and cold.

"I met Shannon two months before I was supposed to start," he says, his voice tense. "She was going to CUNY."

He should have gone to Cornell. He should have taken his future self's example and dumped Shannon after a week, taken James's advice at the time ( _"girls are… weird. You should go to Cornell.")_ , never thought about her again. He pulls his phone out and checks for texts, messages, e-mails, anything. There's a couple of texts from James;  _you and mom should come up for dinner_ , that kind of thing. Nothing important.

Lily says  _"Oh_ ," in a quiet voice that he doesn't like, a pity kind of voice. If this is  _vulnerability_ he wants no part of it.

"He gave up his future for love and to serve his country," Paula says. It wasn't like that, he thinks bitterly. Uneasily, with a greasy feeling in his stomach. "Can you imagine the headlines? He'd have the public behind him in a second."

"Yeah, it's not happening," he says shortly, eyes on his phone. Paula doesn't argue; they'd had knock-down drag outs about it before.

"But without Barney's consent," Paula says, exasperation clouding her voice, "this wardrobe thing is the best I can do." It had taken a lot of arguing, but it was sort of their compromise, fake uncomfortable vulnerability and Barney no longer looking or feeling like himself instead of Paula arranging interviews with all the major news networks. WWN maybe. They're the only major network that isn't  _totally_ out to get him.

Maybe Robin…

Before he can stop himself, he's typing out a text message.

__

 

 

> _**B Stinson** _
> 
> 13:35  _How's your head? [winking emote]_
> 
> ( **Read** 11/01/16)
> 
> 14:48  _Stuck at court. Super lame. You at work?_
> 
> 14:49 [ _penguin emote]_

 

 

He waits and watches his screen for the  _sent_ to turn to  _read_ , but whatever Robin is doing, it's not checking her phone. She's probably working. Probably at WWN. He wonders: if he had gone along with Paula's stupid  _Barney the pathetic lady-feeling loser_ media plan, would they have gone through WWN? Had Robin interview him on the national news? That would have been — well, kind of hot.

But that doesn't make sense. They only hired Paula this summer, after he fucked Georgia and Ted had his stupid dad intervention and Ross had sat him down and told him to stop fucking up the case, blah blah sorry about the divorce but this is more important.

As it happens, Barney agreed with Ross. The trial  _is_ more important than some stupid divorce he doesn't care about.

Still, his mind wanders from his phone to the idea of Robin interviewing him on live TV, mixing with his memories of the night before… he shifts in his seat and tries to think of something else.

"So you know Barney's big secret backstory?" Lily is asking, looking to Paula for gossip.

"I'm not sure how secret it is, but Ross briefed me when I was hired, of course," she replies. That's the problem with Ross: since Barney's known him for so long, he knows  _way too much_. Barney wasn't always as good at being cool as he is now.

"Can we stop talking about the nineties?" he groans, feeling his headache behind his eyes.

"Yes, let's," says Marini, approaching the group with Foley at her side. Ross, Barney sees when he turns around, is at the desk, typing up something on the computer there. "Stinson, we're due in court."

He thinks about it for half a second. "Okay," he says. It's some final hearing, the defense wants Bilson or someone to testify, and since Barney doesn't give a crap about that, they want him to sit in and look contrite or whatever. It seems a little backwards, that they only let him be around the witnesses he  _doesn't_ give a shit about, but whatever. "Did Arthur's testimony get in?" he asks, now that he's thinking about it. He  _likes_ Arthur.

"We decided not to seek him out," Foley says. "The defense doesn't want to use him, and your friendship won't serve much purpose for us."

"So… you're only letting people who hate me testify?" he grumbles.

"We're going to call Ted Mosby as a character witness," Marini says.

"Hey, I can be a witness too!" Lily pipes up. Everyone else has been standing, straightening clothes and getting ready to emerge in public; she alone has remained right where she is, has pulled a book out of her purse. "I mean, pregnant lady, that's gotta be sympathetic."

Marini actually smiles, which is weird. "You're at nine months, correct? With the trial starting next week, there might be a scheduling conflict."

"Okay, fine," Lily admits. "Marshall can be a witness."

"Ted's cool," Barney says, checking his phone one last time.

"We'll be there every day," Lily says.

"Will you?" Foley asks. "That's great. The more people we can show supporting Barney, the better."

"Please!" Lily scoffs. "Ted made Marshall and his fiancé Tracy take vacation time as soon as you guys announced the trial, and I'll be on maternity leave — besides, the Captain is pretty cool with that stuff. And James will be there too, right, Barney?"

"Yeah, sure," Barney says, putting his phone away. "At least a couple of days." With the kids and the commute and all, James had offered to come down more, but Mom had  _also_ wanted to come, and Barney doesn't really want his mom to be at the trial. James had gotten that, so he had offered to take care of Mom for the week.

"See? Ooh, and we can get other people. I bet Carl would come if we asked him. And Patrice! She likes you. And Stuart and Claudia, or maybe just one of them since they pretty much hate eachother now, and maybe Blitz is in town…"

"The more the merrier!" Marini says in this fake bright voice. "Shall we get going?"

"Will you be alright for a little while?" Paula asks Lily.

"Sure," she says at the same time that Ross speaks up from the computer:

"I'll keep an eye on her."

"Good luck, Barney," Lily says from the sofa.

"Sure," he says, touching the receipt he'd moved from the pocket of his old outfit to his new one. It hadn't escaped his notice that in Lily's list of supporters, she'd skipped right over Robin.

Apparently, it hadn't skipped Marini's notice, either, because as soon as they were out of the office, she put her hand on his arm. "Your ex wife," she says. His body kind of seizes up; they stop walking, Foley and Paula moving ahead towards the courtroom.

"What about her?"

"Is there any chance she would consent to appear as one of your supporters next week?"

He's at a total loss for words for a moment, unable to think of how to say  _yes_ or  _no_ or even consider the question.  _We're friends, we're friends again, she agreed and wrote a note_. Lily telling him it was a mistake. Robin's eyes, wet in the dark of his bedroom.  _I'm sorry_ , she said.

_I don't want — I don't want it to be, I didn't want it to be, but this was a mistake. A big mistake._

_Then why did you just…? Robin_ , he'd said, confused and exasperated and drunk and his head and heart pounding in tandem, why is she acting like this why is she saying this why is she doing —  _come here, I give it back —_

_No! No, I — I wanted to make it up to you, but…_

A pity fuck, he'd told Lily.

I don't care, he'd told Lily.

It wasn't even a fuck, not really.

He forces himself to focus, to remember Marini's question. She's elaborating, seeing his expression. "… could really use her implied support, especially as Fisher's defense has landed on using Lowe as they are. Your ex-wife is still in town, has been cooperative so far; could you ask her to appear in court?"

 _We're friends, she wrote a note_. "No," he says. "There's no way she'd do that."

Marini sighs, her expression… something like pity, not surprise,  _I figured, of course she'd hate you. Of course she does._ He's so sick of pity. "Well, it was worth asking," she says, resigned.

He feels that anger, that fury again. He leans against the cool marble wall of the courthouse and closes his eyes. The coolness feels good against his head. He takes a deep breath and three seconds, then straightens and follows her.

A few — not many — reporters hang around the courtroom door. Marini doesn't linger to speak to any of them; no cameras are permitted, these reporters are just taking a tally of who is or isn't attending. It's for them that Barney is really here, for the three seconds of coming and going and proving he's serious and vulnerable or whatever crap Paula spouts. He stands as straight as he can, makes himself as invulnerable as he can.

One reporter calls out to him as he enters the courtroom — a red-headed man Barney thinks he's seen around before. "Mr Stinson!"

The man has a press badge around his neck with the WWN logo on it. He slows his pace down to nearly a stop; the man pushes forward and offers Barney his hand. "Calvin Conners, WWN. I was wondering if you'd like to talk later today?"

 _WWN_. He's a broad shouldered, athletic looking dude: wimpy red hair aside, Conners is probably Robin's type. Barney wonders if they know each other. He doesn't shake the reporter's hand, then Paula's voice echoes in his brain and he does, just once, squeezing really hard. "No," he says. And then awkwardly adds: "No  _thanks_. Bye."

The inside of the courtroom isn't crowded, people standing and sitting and getting comfortable. The press takes up a full row, but Barney heads to the front where Marini and Foley are already seated. Paula isn't here; she probably went back to check on Lily or do her hair or something. Barney sits down in the row immediately behind him; he's the only one there. Across the aisle, Greg's douchey lawyer team are talking quietly; Greg isn't here, but he hasn't been. Barney once asked why he has to come to court every day when Greg's shown up like, one time, but Paula spouted some nonsense about  _showing his dedication_. Like the past fifteen years haven't been enough.

Foley greets him again but goes back to talking with Marini. The judge isn't here; the jury box is, of course, empty. This is the last or second last hearing before the show really begins. He doesn't feel nervous. He doesn't feel much of anything.

He looks at his phone, texts a little bit with James, checks his other messages frequently, and half listens to his lawyers's whispered discussion about witnesses and spin and  _how do we make Barney look good_? Put me in a better suit, he thinks. Heh. That was kind of funny.

The judge comes in after a couple of minutes. Barney puts his phone away but doesn't pay much attention to the hearing. He knows what it's going to be. Greg wants more witnesses to prove his  _Barney is the bad guy_  thing; the prosecution argues that that isn't the real issue here and the focus is on what a douche Greg is. Greg has a right to a defense; the US government has a right to throw him in prison. Blah blah blah. So far, Greg has won almost all of his arguments. The news from this morning is particularly bad…

His mind drifts.

Meeting Greg for the first time in the coffee shop, that stupid loser dumb video tape, interviewing at AltruCell, sitting at the bar and learning the gang's embarrassing stories — Victoria's had been  _awesome_. Victoria had had nice boobs. Ted was stupid to dump her. But he'd dumped Victoria for Robin…

 _I hate that things are like this_ , she'd said.

 _I don't get it, I thought we were hooking up,_ he'd said, drunk and confused and feeling something he doesn't know how to name — different from the vengeful, petty anger at the party, when he'd heard her complaining to Ted, always Ted, forever Ted — that he'd forgotten soon after, but that was the alcohol, only alcohol, and she'd kissed him and he'd remembered he was mad and he'd remembered other things and they were in his apartment and then on his bed and he'd  _said the worst thing_  —

He hadn't known in that moment, if he was mad or if he missed her or what that hollow ache in his ribs was at all. He'd felt it a lot when it came to her, and the more time went on the more sure he was that it was a  _bad_ feeling, an unwelcome feeling, a sign of things to come.  _We were hooking up,_ he said. Her whole body went stiff. He'd said the wrong thing.

 _I can_ — he said, trying to fix it, sitting up and reaching for her; his fingers had brushed her side, her hip bone, her shirt bunched up still; she'd shied away and he'd felt the sting of it. Frozen where he was, unsure whether to pursue or shrink away.

 _I don't want to hook up._ She'd rubbed her eyes.  _I thought I did, I wanted to, I wanted to right up until…_ She'd shrugged, laughed helplessly, bitterly.  _We can't_ just  _hook up_.

 _Okay,_ he'd said.  _But you just…_

 _I didn't want to string you along_.  _I didn't want to run out and leave you hanging._

He'd felt that that was exactly what she'd done, that it was worse now, that if she'd run out the door and slammed it then that would have been better, but he was drunk and she was suddenly stone-cold sober and everything was twisting inside of him.  _Feet touch the floor_ , he'd thought. How many times now had she said that? How many times had they been together and she'd told him to forget it ever had? How many times had she gone to him and rejected him and tricked him into feeling stuff, wanting stuff, needing… stuff, and he'd sat on his bed half naked and confused and the room spinning around him.  _Well… you… did_ , he'd said slowly, tentatively. He'd been angry all night but it was gone now, the world spinning around him.

She'd squeezed her eyes closed.  _I know._

What did she know? He'd wanted to ask. He'd wanted to know so badly, what things she knew and regretted.

She said:  _Having sex wouldn't fix that. I mean… I … I screwed up. I screwed up again. I always…_

 _Hey_ , he'd said. Nothing else. He didn't know what else to say, because he was pretty sure she was trying not to cry and he hated that, but also he agreed, she was right and he agreed. He'd touched her arm.  _Hey now._

_I can't keep doing this. I, ten minutes ago I thought — but then you said — It's not fair to you that I keep — I hate that things are like this._

He hated it too. He didn't know how he wanted them to be, but he didn't want them like  _this_  — in his room in the dark, confused and hurting and watching her cry, ten minutes after she'd…  _They don't have to be like this_ , he'd said.  _We can just be friends_.

 _No, we can't_ , she'd said.  _You were right. We're not friends. We can't…_

 _Sure we can. We can be friends. It's easy._ His hand had slid up her arm; he'd sat up more, moving closer to her. His hand slid across her shoulder, back, cupped around her other shoulder. Friends sit like this.  _I want — I don't want…_ He didn't want her out of his life. He didn't know how to say it. He was still high from the hormones, from the alcohol, from her touch, he'd pressed his lips to the side of her head and then her ear and then her neck, and she'd sat there and not pushed him away.  _We can be friends. I want to be friends. Let's be friends_. Between every kiss and touch.

 _You said that you_  —

 _Stuff you say in bed doesn't count_ , he'd reminded her. His hand slid over her hip…

She'd turned to him and kissed him on the mouth; it was all hands and her fingers cupping his face and her eyes closed with concentration and her hair falling onto his face. He'd tried to pull her against him but she'd resisted, pulled away, looked at him with… something.

Sadness.  _We can't be friends_ , she said. He was lying on his back again, her hand on his sternum. He held it in place with both of his.

 _Sure we can,_ he said.

 _I just — I don't know_ , she'd said, trying to pull away. Not very well; she didn't remove her hand from his.

 _Stay_ , he said.

 _Please_ , he said.

She smiled. She did.

He was pathetic, Barney thinks in the courtroom. He  _is_ pathetic. He'd never begged for a woman in his life, and — and for what? A receipt in his pocket?

The hearing ends and he pulls himself out of his stupor. Marini and Foley are congratulating each other; he guesses things went well. That's nice. He feels stiff and sore from sitting unmoving on a bench for however long; he stands up and stretches and tells the lawyers  _good job_  because that's the kind of thing you have to do. As he does, he checks his phone.

__

 

> _**B Stinson** _
> 
> 13:35  _How's your head? [winking emote]_
> 
> ( **Read** 11/01/16)
> 
> 14:48  _Stuck at court. Super lame. You at work?_
> 
> 14:49 [ _penguin emote]_
> 
> ( **Read** 11/01/16)

 

 

He says, "can I leave?"

Marini gives him a look he ignores. "We'll see you at nine tomorrow," she says.

"Thanks for coming in today," Foley says.

Conners tries to call out to Barney as he passes on his way to the door, but Barney ignores him. He's feeling restless and dazed and sick again, and he thinks his pain killers are wearing off since his headache is getting worse. He wants to get Lily and get out of here, his mood suddenly sour again.

She must want to leave pretty badly too: instead of on a comfy sofa in an office, she's standing in the courthouse hall not far from the door. "Hey, court was fine, let's go," he says in lieu of greeting —

Then he sees Lily's face, pale and stricken, and it gets his attention through the haze. "What's up?" He feels his heart clench. "Are you in labor?"

"No! No," she says. She holds out her cell phone, the screen black.

"Lil, what's going on?"

She meets his eyes, her own wide and frightened. "I was just texting Robin," she says. "She's at LaGuardia."

He looks at Lily.

"She's leaving for Hong Kong in an hour."

There are two splotches of color on Lily's cheeks.

"She says she's not coming back."


	12. pressure

 

 

 

_**November 1st, 2016.** _

_**La Guardia Airport, Queens** _

 

 

 

Barney is on the cover of the  _Post_ again.

The photo is a headshot without much context; Barney, looking at or slightly past the camera, the resolution not high enough to tell. The words  _STINSON SINKING_ take up most of the page, the byline explaining that the case again Greg Fisher was  _falling apart at the_ _ **seams**_ _!_ based on the government's trust in  _an unrepentant_ _ **conman**_ _!_ Trial to start  _ **next week**_!

Robin has been here before.

She doesn't think about it.

Her head is spinning, leaving her not dizzy but detached and untethered; she buys gum, aspirin, and a bottle of water at the kiosk, touches the newspaper and turns away without buying or opening it. She adjusts her shoulder bag and heads to her terminal, through the glass doors to the smoking lounge.

The room reeks of cigarettes although there are only three others in the lounge with her: two suited businessmen and a harried looking woman in pumps who gives Robin a sideways glance. Robin sits on the chair farthest from anyone she can find, near the plate glass window overlooking the runways. She doesn't have any cigarettes, she quit three years ago ( _on her honeymoon_ , she thinks and wants to laugh), but even just the smell is comforting to her, almost calming. Makes her want one for herself, truthfully, but she (barely) refrains.

God, she's pathetic. Absolutely fucking pathetic. She breathes in deep and then takes more aspirin, swallowing it down with her bottled water, then checks her phone.

_Air Canada Flight 701 to Toronto delayed by two hours._

_It figures_. The one time she needs, needs desperately, to get away, to escape, to — to  _go_ , damn the consequences, and her own country turns against her, leaves her stranded in La Guardia with her ex-husband's photo all over the damn place.

She wants to put her head in her hands, but it'd smudge her makeup. Robin refreshes Air Canada's website, checks the weather in Toronto, and ends up reading through her text messages again. An exchange with Ted (last message: 'You're not a coward. You're the strongest person I know.'  _Thanks, mom._ ), and then a longer conversation with Lily, bored at court with Barney, demanding to know if the things he'd told her were true.

Lily should read the  _Post_  more. Nothing Barney says is true.

Or is it? Or are they? She eyes his weird, super-friendly texts for the millionth time, feeling a sharp tug in her head and gut and lungs and knot in her throat, the  _you fucked up_  feeling, the  _RJ you did everything wrong_ feeling. She starts to argue with herself about it again — he was drunk,  _she_ was drunk, she'd wanted just for once,  _one time_ , to do something for him, to —

But she stops herself. Stares at her text messages some more, his to her, hers to Lily. Checks in with Air Canada. Breaths in the stale, acrid air.

Could it really only have been twelve hours ago? Fourteen hours? Him talking and talking her into it, he was always good at talking her into mistakes, knowing she shouldn't but feeling like shit for resisting. He'd kept trying to kiss her and touch her and had finally slept. She'd wanted to sleep so badly too, close her eyes and pretend in the morning that it hadn't happened — none of it, their divorce and their marriage and all the years in between, that it was the start and not some fumbled, failed ending. She'd fought off sleep and sat jackknifed on her side of the bed — on  _the_ bed, the bed he'd taken so many other women to after — after he'd dumped her.

After she'd left. The guilt curling around her. And she had slept, restlessly, no longer giddy and drunk and  _happy_  but sick and guilty. She'd tried to apologize with the drink, tried to apologize by touching him, tried to say sorry in making him happy — for just a minute, just  _once_  — she'd tried to apologize in every way but  _saying_  it.

And he'd said…

She should have just fucked him.

No. Robin promised herself she'd stop thinking about this.

She's a grown up. She can admit it. She made a huge mistake. Now she's leaving town, and her mistake will vanish. Her divorce papers are signed and mailed to her lawyer. This chapter of Robin's Scherbatsky's incredibly pathetic life story has  _ended_.

She checks her phone. Air Canada, Toronto weather, Lily's texts, Barney's.

She never replied to his — she debates typing something,  _bye_ , or maybe  _sorry_.

Maybe  _I'm at the airport_.

Instead she looks out the window, planes taxiing and little toy cars loading suitcases. The sky is cloudy, dark. She thinks about rain falling on the roof of a reception tent, rain falling in Central Park… to Ted, trying so hard to make it rain for her all those years ago. Even if it had just been a coincidence, back then, it had been the thing she wanted, the sign she was looking for… proof, it had seemed, that she was making the right decision, that he'd chase her and be where she needed him to be… Ted had always been good at that. She'd never really had that with Barney, that miracle-bright perfect timing. He'd never been one to engineer signs.

 _Come and find me_.

She doesn't want to think about that.

It doesn't matter. That part of her life is over. Forever.

That  _you fucked up_ feeling again, that panicky clutch of her guts — the way out is to escape it, the way to never have to reply, never have to fake nice or fake mad or fake apologize or see him, look him in the eye and tell him what she wanted to in her  _goodbye_ note — crossing out  _this was a mistake_ and putting in some platitude about seeing him soon… something she'd written, shoulders bent over his kitchen counter, trying to convince herself she meant it, knowing already she was running away.

It hadn't been a mistake. She'd been drunk and she'd been happy and it had seemed like the natural progression, it had seemed  _right_ , the way things always had when she'd let herself be carried away by him — before he was her  _ex_ or her  _husband_ and back when he was just her jackass friend, taking her hands and pulling her grinning onto the dance floor — It had been only natural to kiss him, and when he'd kissed her back it had been… his hands had cupped her face and it had been…

_Familiar._

She'd been swept away by it, shutting off her mind and heart, concentrating on the feeling, the sensation, his hands over and then under her shirt, just like every other time, beelining to her breasts — it had been familiar and wonderful and a  _relief_ , that he would still care about getting a feel in first, that she still knew how to unknot his tie, that it wasn't  _new_ and  _special_ or  _clumsy_ , but familiar, so familiar, so  _right_. Who had they been kidding? This was easy, this was right, this was  _it_. Stumbling blindly down the hall, around the corner, into the bedroom, not needing to look, knowing each turn and step, his chest and belly hot and smooth when she touched it, his shirt crisp and clean-smelling.

She might have been able to do it, to keep her doubts buried, hidden away until morning. She might have woken up early, east-facing windows letting in too much light, woken with his foot heavy over her ankles like a hundred other times, his face smashed into his pillow, his arm curled under, like so many mornings before. She might have checked her e-mail and prodded him on her way to take a shower; he might have joined her there, or started a pot of coffee before heading out on a run, and she might have drank her coffee in her old pink robe, the fleecy one he thought was ugly, and debated buying a dog for him to take on his runs. A cute terrier mix, maybe. She had the perfect name already picked out: Pancake. One of these days, she might have told herself, booting up her laptop to see what work she'd missed. One of these days.

Or she might have woken up and held the sheets to her chest and told him  _this never happened_.

It wouldn't have been the first time.

In her heart, in the smoking lounge, Robin knows she would have picked the second of those choices, ducked and ran. Instead, in the middle, he'd murmured  _I love you_ with alcohol on his breath, and she'd remembered all of it, everything. They were divorced. This couldn't happen.

But it had. She had. She'd just wanted — before she left, she'd known in that second of plunging fear she had to leave, had to  _go_  — had to stop herself from messing this all up worse, again, like always, she'd wanted to do something nice for him. Make him happy, just for a minute, just for a couple of seconds, like she'd never been able to do in three years of marriage. No: she'd just screwed him up, messed with his feelings, ignored him, refused him, had a miscarriage, and drove him away, ruined him so badly he'd destroyed his apartment with water damage and needed Ted to fix it.

He'd tried to reciprocate after, but she'd pushed him off, gently, smiling, letting him kiss her and then pulling away. Maybe this was the only pathetic selflessness she could manage.

He'd tasted, just a bit, like nicotine.

Rain begins to splatter against the floor-to-ceiling windows, so sudden and hard that it startles her. The wind is driving the sudden storm onto the glass, leaving the windows blurred with running water. Robin stands from her chair and moves closer, trying to see the rainstorm through the splatter: sheets of hard rain pounding the tarmac and airplanes, the kind of heavy squall that doesn't usually last long. She wonders if her flight will be further delayed. The glass is cold against her fingers; she can see now how thick it is.

The automatic door to the lounge  _woosh_ es open.

"Hi," says Barney.

She'd texted Lily.  _I'm at the airport._ Time, place,  _don't tell Barney_.

The drama of the moment hits her — standing and looking at the rain out the window, one palm pressed to the glass, and him behind her. She can imagine his expression. She should feel triumphant, was expecting she would, but instead Robin feels like she has all day. Vaguely sick. Guilty.

She turns to him, and gets her first real surprise: he hadn't been saying hi to  _her_. He's standing in front of one of the suited men in the room, his wallet in his hands. He's wearing a slate-colored suit, fitted well, but not in a style he usually wears. "Here," he's saying, pressing a bill into the man's hand. "Do me a favor and sit somewhere else?" Barney nods his head towards the door.

The man frowns up at Barney, looks down at his hand. Robin watches his eyebrows raise. He stubs out his cigarette and gathers his things as Barney moves down to the next person in the cigarette lounge: a bill pressed into her hand, a smile,  _get out_. By the time Barney has paid the last person to leave — the last person besides Robin — the downpour has died down; the rain sounds fainter against the glass.

They both watch the last man in the cigarette lounge pack up and leave. Barney follows him to the door, feeling the knob for a lock or switch. He then reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls something out, and scribbles a note against the wall. He sticks it into the door: she expects it to say  _CLOSED_ , but there are too many letters, and she can't make it out from here.

Only after all of that does he turn towards her. Only after all of that does Robin swallow and speak. "What?" she says. "You're not going to pay me to get out of here?" She curses herself right off. This isn't the time for a joke.  _Or maybe it is?_ Should she try to act casual? She runs her palms over the thighs of her jeans.

He looks past her, then into her eyes. "I didn't think I needed to pay you money to want to run away," he says. His expression is tight, tense. There are dark shadows under his eyes: unlike Robin, who slathered her skin with concealer before checking out of her hotel. Was it all just last night? Was it not even a day ago that she — they —

He looks his age. That only ever strikes her when he's unhappy. She feels her mouth twist and tries to smile, tries not to grimace. "… Okay," she says. "That's, um, that's fair." She swallows and tries again to smile. She doesn't really know what to say; any relief she'd felt had sunken down and condensed into a pit in her stomach.

They stare at one another for a minute — or try to, Robin dropping her gaze, Barney breaking and looking to the side every couple of seconds. All at once he sighs harshly. "Okay, I'm here," he says.

She doesn't know right away what to say to that.

He looks at her, his mouth tightening, then he spreads his arms in a shrug or open gesture. "Just like you wanted, right?"

He says it with a sardonic edge to his voice, and Robin feels like she was slapped.

"I didn't —"

"You told Lily." He cuts her off, his voice tight and cold, and suddenly Robin realizes: he's angry with her. Not annoyed, not sulking, not having a dramatic fit over something silly.  _Angry_. His body is tense and coiled, his expression closed, his hands held tightly at his sides as he tries to keep from closing them into fists. "You told Lily where you where and when you'd be gone and what  _terminal_ you'd be leaving from."

"I just —"

"So here I am," he says. "I showed up."

"I didn't —" Robin says again. She cuts herself off, before he can, but he doesn't interrupt. He stares at her with dark eyes, his brow furrowed, and she sees his adam's apple bob once, twice. Her face is hot and red and tears, unexpectedly, prickle at her eyes. "I didn't know you would… you'd come for me."

"You didn't  _know_ I would, but you wanted me to," he says dismissively, and it's like a knife in her heart, her fingers tingling and numb, her heart pounding, and she blinks quickly and clenches her jaw. "That's why you told Lily, right?" He pauses, but she can't even find the words to say  _I didn't_ or  _I just_ or  _no, no, not like that, I just hoped —_ hoped,  _hoped_ , that just once when she — or like Ted used to, how he'd show up and just  _know_ when she was scared, when she felt like shit about her life and her choices, how Ted would say something and tell her she was wrong to be scared and better than fear and better than guilt. Ted,  _Ted_  did these things for her, and she'd wanted — no, she'd  _hoped_ , she'd hoped, yes, okay, Lily had said  _I'm hanging out with Barney at court_ and of course she'd wondered, of course a part of her had hoped — like Ted all those years ago, appearing at her window in the pouring rain.

He'd appear at the airport, stop her from boarding the plane. Tell her everything was his fault, that he was sorry, thank her for thinking of him the night before, take her into his arms —  _yes_ , yes, she'd hoped, she'd wanted —

But not like  _this_. "So, here I am," Barney scoffs. "Just like you wanted." He looks down at his shoe, digging the heel into the carpet.

She has to say something, something smart, something to fix this. She doesn't know what that is. She wanted him to prove it, chase her, find her, prove… something. She wanted to run away. She wanted both those things, and never stopped to really think about how he'd feel — let alone that he might be angry at her for it.

"I didn't think you'd be mad," she says in a quiet, little girl voice. He scoffs, loudly. "That's not what I meant!" She takes a deep breath, lets her momentary indignation fuel her. She's not a little girl. She's a famous and successful reporter. She can't meet his eyes. "I didn't — I didn't do this on purpose, I didn't think you'd come. I wasn't expecting you…" she doesn't know what to say; it feels like a lie no matter what excuse she makes. She hadn't thought it. She'd hoped he would. One more chance, one more hail mary. Tell her nothing else matters, that fear can be overcome, that mistakes are the past…

"Right," he says. "This is just one of your secret tests of character that I'm supposed to fail. That way, when I don't meet your crazy person expectations, you can sit back in your airplane seat and tell yourself what an  _awesome_ person you are, escaping me."

She flinches. "Stop that."

"Stop what —" he says back, his voice lilting and sarcastic.

"You're being mean!" It's a stupid thing to say. It's a childish thing to say, but it's all she can think and he closes his mouth, surprised. "You're being so mean, you're always so mean! You're acting like you just came here to yell at me f- for being a selfish bitch, like you've never been scared! Like you've never realized you've never made a huge mistake and, and wanted someone to tell you, just once, that you're not a fuckup!" She sucks in a breath and wants to continue yelling, now that the gates have been opened, but he takes an angry step towards her first.

"You've done this like three times! More than three times! You're always calling me to yell at me or finding me and yelling at me or, or setting up some weird psychic mind reading test I'm supposed to figure out to prove I'm worthy, or calling me drunk and hanging up on me when I ask you a question, or telling me  _hey, dude, this never happened_ , haha,  _just kidding, it totally happened and you fucked up so I'm staying with my boyfriend_ , or —"

"That was years ago!" Robin gasps, yelling and flustered and definitely crying a little now. He's not, but his eyes are wild and the rest of him tight and tense.

"So what? It's the same shit. It's always the same —  _I'm Robin, I'm the victim, Barney is a horrible fucking person_  — pass, pass my fucking  _test_ , do what I want you to do right now and maybe —"

"I don't think that!"

She's loud enough that she startles herself, startles him too. She takes a long, shaky breath, tries to clear her nose, and wonders how it all came to this.

"You do think that," he says quietly.

That only makes it feel worse. "I don't think that," she says, remembering saying the opposite while drunk and angry at three AM, remembers saying it while fighting and hung over in Argentina, but he wasn't supposed to take it to heart, not when she was  _angry —_

"Robin," he says, and sounds almost exasperated.

It's enough to rouse her again. "I don't think that!" She punctuates it with a swallow that somehow transforms into a sob, not a graceful sniffle but a shuddering gasping mess of tears and snot, her hand flying over her mouth. "Dammit," she swears. "Dammit! I loved you so much! I did, I always did, I wanted — I wanted to be —" she keeps trying to say it, her eyes squeezed shut, but stutters at each try. "I wanted to be with you forever, dammit! But you're  _mean_. You just — you're so mean!"

She scrapes her hand from her eyes to glare up at him, only to find he's suddenly moved closer, his expression helpless. "You said you wanted to be friends."

"You're sleeping around!" She tries to take a step back and bumps into the window. "What do you think? How — how do you think it feels? We're divorced for a month and you're banging half of New York? E- everyone is on your side because of court, coddling you, and I can't do that because I'm your ex and of course I'm mad at you! I can't be around you, but — but I  _want_ to, I…" she doesn't know anymore, what she's trying to say. She wants to erase this year, the past two, three years, for the rain at the window to be the rain on the pavilion, to undo and redo this whole thing.

She focuses on her breathing, trying not to imagine him sweeping her into his arms at the terminal, people clapping, some beautiful speech about trying again and the trouble being worth it and  _her_ being worth it and her mistakes not mattering.

He's silent. For a long time, long enough that Robin gets herself under control, feels shaky from emotion and adrenaline.

The terminal… "How did you get past security?" she asks, carefully wiping at her eyes.

"I bought a ticket to Seoul," he says. "It's cool. I used my corporate card." His voice is flat, and when she looks up at him, he's looking at her, his face tired and expressionless. As if he were waiting for her to make eye contact, he speaks. "You're always yelling at me."

"As soon as I got out of the hospital you shut me out," she says quietly.

"I wasn't —"

"You shut me out. You shut me out and went off on side trips and, and  _vanished_ when we were in Vermont —" her voice catches and she tries to reign it back in. "And then we split up and you just act like we were never — you wouldn't even  _look_ at me."

He looks up and to the side, searching for words. "It was really hard to look at you." She can't think of a reply. He continues. "And you were always mad at me. Like I'd let you down."

"You did let me down," she says bluntly, and he flinches.

"I … guess I should go," he says.

She'd needed him, after the hospital. Needed him to still want her, to be there for her, to forgive her for being a fuckup. She'd needed him years ago in Central Park, and needed him at their wedding, and needed him here, today, to … to… show up and save her. Not yell, but to do what she'd secretly wanted without being asked. All at once she feels cold and empty. "I fucked up," she says quietly.

He doesn't move.

"I, I fucked up, okay? You're always going on about how you — how you think I don't love you, but I'm the one… I needed you to prove it, I wanted you to prove it, because why would you… I mean, you're you," she says, laughing weakly. "A part of me did want you to come here today… so that I knew you cared, even now." The last words come out at near a whisper.

She wants him to hold her now, all shreds of pride gone and abandoned, but he still doesn't move, and it steels her again, his silence, the implicit rejection.

"I know," she continues shakily. "I know! I know it's selfish and it's s- stupid. I know it's pathetic. I, last night, I just wanted, I don't know what I wanted, but it would have been a mistake, a b - bad mistake, when we're like  _this_ , but I thought I could be selfless, just for once, not fuck up, j- just once…" she takes a breath. "And clearly I couldn't! So… so, I… thank you for coming. I'm sorry. I'll — I'll go now. You were right. I'm always — I'm the one who always messes things up because I hate happiness or whatever." She laughs weakly, through her tears, and the joke falls flat at their feet. "I'm sorry. I'm  _sorry_. I — I screwed everything up, I was selfish, I…"

She doesn't know what else to say, just presses her fingers under her eyes and takes a breath, looking up at the ceiling. Her skin is hot to her touch, damp. He isn't crying. He isn't looking at her, either.

"I. Yeah. I get it, okay? But you're — you're  _mean_. You, you shut everything off, it was like, okay, whatever, I gave this 'love' thing a shot and I'm over it, and you're just standing here! What the hell? You - you tell Lily we hooked up like it was all your idea, you're  _mean_ , you're just  _mean_ now, and — and you haven't even said sorry! So I don't know what I want, and I fucked up, but — but, you're  _mean_."

It's inarticulate and messy and loud, and she doesn't feel like she said it right, even knew what she was trying to say. She tries to go over it in her head — he's just standing there, looking at her, and she's forgotten what she was trying to say.  _I'm sorry_ and  _I hate you_ and  _I love you_ , all at once.

She loves him.

It hits her right then, the understanding she's been skirting around, trying to avoid and hide and compartmentalize, the thought from the first time she saw him on the  _Post_ , in the coffee shop by their apartment, at the Halloween party, in his publicist's office, in Ted's backyard with Ted's arm around her shoulder, in Ted's living room at two in the morning — she loves him. She's still in love with him. Angry and hurt and upset, but she loves him. She never stopped.

And it doesn't matter. "I just — you're so  _mean_ ," she says again, her voice catching. Because he stopped loving her, wanting her, wanting anything to do with her after the baby, because he lied to Lily and Lily texted her, because he won't look at her and won't apologize and because she'd always known and always had been afraid of this, of this happening, of him getting sick of her and her fuckups and looking for someone better, less broken, less neglectful, less of a fuckup —

She presses her palm over her eyes again, her left hand fisted over her mouth. He won't even say anything, won't even do anything. He only came here because Lily made him. What was she thinking? Why had she wanted him to come find her, why had she run away, why had she let him kiss her? Why had she screwed things up so badly? What must everyone think of her?

"… Don't get on your plane."

It's not the response she was expecting. She presses her fist to her mouth harder, to stifle the sound. "Seriously?"

"Don't go. Don't run away. What do you want me to say?" She thinks he's making fun of her until she looks at him, his expression as serious as Robin's ever seen it. "I'll say it."

"Stop it," she says, sure he's making fun of her.

"Don't leave."

"Are you serious? I just — I just said all that shit, I just called you out, say something about  _that_ ," she says, not wanting to fight but not wanting him to dismiss her out of hand like this.

"I'm an asshole," he says, looking up at the ceiling, then he turns around, so his back is mostly to her. He takes a couple of steps and collapses down into one of the airport chairs. "I sleep around. I lie a lot. What else?" He looks over at her, his voice light but expression wary, his leg jiggering in his seat. "I told Lily I fucked you and dumped you and broke your heart. Oh, I also committed witness tampering."

"Stop it," she says again. "Stop it. This isn't a fucking joke, Barney." She takes a deep breath. "I just tried to pour my fucking heart out to you —"

"You just ran off and bought a plane ticket to fucking Timbuktu after saying we were gonna be friends!" he retorts.

"I made a mistake!" She yells back.

"Which part? The drunk hand job, or the running away, or defiling my family's secret hangover cure by using it to enable a lie?" He's gripping the arm rest of his chair now, trying not to leap to his feet.

"All of it!" She moves towards him. "That's what I'm saying! And that's why I need to go, don't you get it? We're fucking toxic, I keep making things worse and you keep turning into more of an asshole, and I can't deal with it anymore! I need to — to go, to focus on my career, get my head cleared —" He scoffs, loudly. "Right, because how dare I give a shit about my job," she snaps. "What the hell, Barney, I took this job for  _you_ , because  _you_ wanted to travel around —"

"That wasn't what I wanted!"

They hadn't ever really talked about it.

She remembers the hospital, his notebook full of vacation spots, a list he'd made to pass the time while she was in surgery. Their trip to Nicaragua, his secret attempt to save their marriage before she even knew it needed saving.

"Well then what the hell do you want?"

"You're the one who wanted me to come here," he snaps, and then he is standing, a coiled burst of energy, pushing himself towards her, his face near hers, his eyes dark with anger. She wonders if he's going to shove her; her hand itches, wanting to slap him.

"Why did you come?" she demands, holding her ground. She's not afraid of him, not like that. She's never been. "I apologized, I didn't mean — okay, a part of me wanted — but fine, it was stupid, whatever!"

"I want to be friends again!"

He practically shouts it, backing away from her, turning and making fast strides to the door. For a moment she's sure he's gone, he's reached his breaking point, it's over, but he stops halfway between Robin and the exit. "Fuck!" he swears. "I wanted to be  _friends_." His voice drops. "You said we were going to be friends."

Her heart twists out towards him, his back, his slightly down-turned head.  _We're friends, we're friends_ , she wants to tell him, wants to rush into his arms, he  _came here for her_ , he wants her — as a friend, but he does, he wants —  _finally_ — but she squeezes her eyes closed. "You said we weren't friends." Her voice is weak.

"Don't go," he says. Her eyes well up behind their lids, and she presses her hand over her mouth to hide her expression. "Don't leave," he says. "Not again."

"I have to. I made a huge mistake —"

"It's only a fuckup if we both say it is," he says. She knows what he's doing; he's doing what he does best, finding the one chink in her armor and exploiting it, using it to get what he wants. The first go in the shower in the morning, the laser tag dress rehearsal, the weekend trip to Central America, a baby. Her. He wants her to stay. He wants to be friends. She wants —

"Barney," she pleads.

"You wanted me to come get you."

She has to smile, because there's nothing else left. "I'm a fuckup," she says.

"I'm a terrible human being. Don't leave."

" _Barney_ ," she says again. She opens her eyes, looks up from the floor. He's standing right in front of her again, his hands in his pockets, his expression open and wary and mouth quirked into a half, hopeful smile. "I'm still so angry at you," she whispers, her smile shaky.

"Me too," he says. His eyes are tired and blue. "Don't leave me."

She laughs weakly, exhausted, guilty and sick and screwed up, and this time, at last, he takes her into his arms.


	13. closed for repairs

 

 

 

**November 7th, 2016.**

 

 

 

"All rise!" There's a murmur as people stand, the squeak of chairs being pushed back. "New York Supreme Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Clarke presiding."

Judge Clarke is a short, solid man in his early sixties. He looks out over the courtroom for a moment, before turning back to the bailiff and telling him to swear in the jury. Everyone else sits down again, Lily with Marshall and Tracy's assistance. "Are you sure you're going to make it?" Tracy whispers.

"I'm not missing this," Lily hisses, her hand bracing against her stomach.

Barney leans across Robin towards Lily. "If you do have it here, name him after me," he whispers. "Total sympathy points."

"Stinson!" his lawyer hisses without turning around, and Barney obediently sits back upright.

Robin tries not to chuckle, looking down at her lap until she feels the smile is gone.

For the first day of the trial, the courtroom is packed. Greg Fisher sits at the defendant's table with his legal team, his supporters on the first bench behind the rail: his wife, two of his adult sons, and a brother. Barney knew all of them but the brother on sight, and had also been able to pick out several GNB and AltruCell employees in the crowd earlier, non-witnesses, interested in the show. Only lawyers sit at the prosecution's table, leaving Barney to sit with his own supporters in the first row.

It had been easy to forget, but Barney was not actually the one on trial. The press had a lot to do with that: Robin knew several of her colleagues were sitting in the rows behind them. Some had even approached her for a statement.

WWN had finally taken a stand in this story, distancing itself from Robin to try to avoid bias. The network had given her the contact information for one of their house lawyers, and asked her for an inside story in practically the same breath. As long as Robin stayed quiet, it'd open the door for more speculation, her boss had reminded her. Even Sandy Rivers had told her to go ahead and do an interview; it seemed like Patrice was the only one at WWN who wasn't out for an interview. _Freaking Patrice, always so nice and understanding. What a loser._

Robin, however, was staying silent on the subject.

That was what Barney wanted.

The jury's swearing in came to a close, and they took their seats. There were seven women and five men, which Marshall had said was a good win for Barney's team: women were, in theory, more likely to look at Greg's lifestyle and be turned off, and it could be an advantage when Barney came to testify, if he could keep his attitude in check and be charming.

Barney had straightened his tie and said he was _always_ charming. Everyone had smiled at that, but Robin had noticed the tiredness in his expression, and Ted had given him a long look.

"We'll now hear opening arguments," Judge Clarke announces.

Barney's lawyer — no, the attorney representing the US Government, Robin reminds herself — stands to speak. Robin glances sideways at Barney, sitting beside her. His shoulders are loose, relaxed, his legs spread as far as the bench allows him — not very, his knees brushing against both Ted and Robin's legs. This morning, over his protests, Robin had helped Paula apply a tiny bit of makeup to his face, a little bit under the eyes, just to smooth his skin out for the cameras: today would probably be the biggest press day of the trial, and he would just have to deal with it. It had fallen on Robin to make sure he'd gotten a good night's sleep the night before, and to use her television expertise to make sure he was well-dressed for the cameras.

That had been the easiest task of the past week — month, even. All she had done was inform him that he could wear whatever he wanted to court, and within fifteen minutes he had dragged her by hand to the Dolce & Gabbana store on 56th.

In a charcoal single-breasted suit, white shirt, and thin charcoal tie, he looked at ease in a way Robin really hadn't seen since she'd been in New York. The lack of color made him look somber, serious, even with the diamond tie pin he'd snuck on at the last second: he fit right in with the FBI staff and State Department lawyers, handsome and comfortable while still matching their somber wardrobes: Marini's navy blue jacket and skirt was the most colorful outfit of the group.

Somehow, the rest of them had been hit by it too: Tracy and Lily in wine and navy-colored dresses, Ted and Marshall in black suits. Robin found herself the lone exception: her dress was forest green wool. It was probably too short for a courtroom, and she hadn't intended on buying a new outfit for the occasion, but Barney had seen the dress at Dolce and liked it on sight.

 _You're so starved for designer suits you've moved on to double-breasted wool_ dresses _?_ she'd teased him, at the time.

They've called a truce.

More than a truce.

She'd been so miserable, so emotional at the airport, so glad he'd finally, finally reached out to her, that she'd gladly left with him, abandoning her flight and Toronto and Hong Kong. They hadn't spoken much on the drive back into the city — she'd taken it as an exhausted silence, a comfortable silence, too strung out from crying and too happy to have been forgiven, to have her mistakes pushed away. She'd spent the drive leaning against him, shamelessly comforting herself with the contact, his arm around her, her head against his collarbone.

They'd gone back to his apartment because she didn't have a hotel. It was still raining; a fog was rolling in, leaving the apartment dark and cool. _Friends_ , he'd said, but there was something between them, some tension that _friends_ didn't cover — they were too tired and emotionally raw, still angry, still hung over, still clutching that thread of relief. _He doesn't want me to leave_.

It wasn't enough to build anything out, not a house or even a foundation. But they'd gone home. He'd emptied his pockets as she started the coffee machine, both of them a little nervous like it was a first date, and instead of talking more she'd kissed him — on the mouth, quickly, giving them room to pretend it was polite.

He'd looked terrified, for a hot, sharp moment.

 _No, I just —_ she didn't have the words for it, a way to say _this thing I'm feeling, this anxious feeling, this tension, I want it to go, I know how to make it go_. ' _I won't leave_ ,' she'd said, and he'd relaxed after that, understood what she was saying. Barney had always communicated best in bed, too.

There was too much tension. Too much anger and anxiety and the pushed-away sex of the days before, too much drinking and pretending to not be happy, to not be sad, to not be angry, to not be anything. Robin had been too tired, much too tired, to pretend anymore.

She'd taken the lead, and he'd let her, either cautious or holding himself back or just happy, as ever, to let her be in control: he'd seemed careful at first, but she'd coaxed it away from him. She still knew how to do that, where to tease him and push at him until he was grinning, pushing back, hands everywhere, hers too, checking, making sure, wanting to know that he was still the same, that he felt the same, that he tasted the same, that he fucked the same, that time hadn't passed and _he doesn't want me to leave_ was enough to rebuild with.

Three times that night — then, in the dim, rainy evening; that night, when they went to bed, and a third, quick and fast and hard past midnight, after she'd woken up to pee and he'd gotten the wrong idea from her climbing out of bed.

The next day she'd been calmer, more relaxed, less razor sharp, and so had he: they'd slept in and taken their time getting going in the morning, Robin wearing his robe and not much else until ten, watching TV, reading the paper: he'd done his usual ten-things-at-once that counted as Barney relaxing, watching TV with her while also practicing some card trick that involved her drawing the two of hearts again and again and again. They hadn't talked, but somehow the night before had led to a new peace accord. He didn't want her to leave. He didn't think she'd fucked up. He came to the airport and swept her into his arms.

That had lasted until dinner, when Lily and Marshall and the kids had shown up, Lily ready to throw an intervention. The conversation had started with _I thought you were leaving?_ as an accusation of bad faith.

 _I'm staying in town for a while_ , Robin had said. She hadn't thought yet about how long or where, still floating in her calm bubble; she'd landed on the first plausible excuse. _I told Barney's lawyers I'd stick around to support him._

Lily had looked from her to Barney, pointedly around the apartment, Robin's carry-on bags abandoned on the coffee table. _Where will you be staying_? she'd asked, hinting broadly that they were making some kind of mistake.

Barney had answered smoothly. _She's just staying for the trial, it's no big, this is a two bedroom. It's like I told you. Me and Robin are just friends now_.

In the moment Robin had been too relieved for the save to wonder.

In the airport, Robin had been too hurt and panicked to notice he had never really responded. He'd never really gotten emotional, mad, sure, but even when he'd asked her to stay he'd been kind of flat, kind of detached.

Robin's known Barney long enough to know that he is not an unemotional person.

They hadn't talked about it since. And maybe that's fine. Maybe this is what Robin has to do, has to be for him. The past week has been almost perfect — spending time together, having fun together, getting along and talking and being involved in his life, the trial. WWN put her on leave as soon as she told them she was helping Barney, so she can spend as much time as he needs. Maybe that's what the problem was all along.

Maybe now she can finally, actually, be there for him.

Support him, help him, not be that crazy, demanding person he accused her of, some heartless bitch who only cares about her job and ignores him until he leaves her. She can sit next to him at court without wanting to cry. She can go home with him at night.

She can be his friend. She can be whatever he needs her to be.

And then… maybe… when he's less stressed about the trial… or… if she can get him to believe that she means it…

Then when the trial ends…

It hasn't escaped her notice that he hasn't talked about what they'll do when the verdict comes in. That he's dismissed all of their friend's questions with _me and Robin are friends_. That he's still _flat_ , still holding back his emotions, still wary and cool, more cheerful and talkative as ever, but not… not the same. Not quite his normal self.

In the airport lounge, angry and flat again as she cried and cried.

When they'd left together, her holding her bag, his hands in his pockets, he'd stopped and taken the sign he'd written off the door. Instead of _CLOSED_ he'd written _CLOSED FOR REPAIRS._

Repairs.

It's probably just stress.

Marini's opening statement is relatively short and punchy: Gregory Fisher is a liar, a cheat, has broken numerous anti-trust laws, corporate laws, and regulatory laws. He has trafficked in weapons for nations the US has under sanction, he has committed criminal bribery, this is not merely a case of white collar crime or fraud but crimes that undermine and weaken America. She's oblique when she mentions Barney, only bringing him up towards the end as a _longtime employee who, alone, stood up against Mr Fisher's schemes, at great personal risk._ Marini mentions that Barney even nobly hid his true work from his friends and loved ones, and Robin hears Ted snort softly from laughter. She glances sideways to see Barney also fighting a small smile.

When the defense begins their opening statement, everyone tenses a little. Robin can hear Tracy suck in a breath a minute or two in: the defense starts by agreeing that grave miscarriages of justice have been performed, acts of treason against America, but quickly afterwards begin to attack Barney. It's nothing the tabloids haven't been saying for weeks, but it's different hearing it in a courtroom: Barney is a serial liar. He was motivated not by love of country but by petty revenge. His name is on all of the prosecution's evidence: his, not the defendant's. He has misled the FBI, attacked the innocent family man Gregory Fisher, attacked _America itself_ , as the defense will prove.

It's less an opening statement and more a declaration of war. Robin feels Barney go tense beside her, and reaches over, lays her right hand on his left. For a moment, she just strokes the back of his hand with her thumb, but then he twists his palm, squeezes her fingers with his, holding her hand tightly. His expression, never changes: he looks past her at Greg the entire time.

The rest isn't as bad, but Barney's carefully managed good mood has been shot. The prosecution calls two witnesses, an AltruCell VP and executive, to lay out the foundation for the charges. The defense isn't hard on cross examining either of them, and the testimonies go smoothly: right now, both sides are mostly just trying to establish the facts of the crime, to allow each side to later pin it on their chosen suspect: What did Mr. Fisher do at AltuCell? What sort of contracts? Did Mr. Stinson know about them? Did he perpetrate them? The first time Nosek insinuates that Barney was guilty, Robin waits for Marini to object, but she stays silent: she looks over at Marshall, noticing Lily and Ted doing the same. Marshall looks unconcerned.

Barney doesn't react. She grips his hand tighter.

It all goes on for a couple of hours: a wash of questions and answers, Marini trying to sketch out the scope of Greg Fisher's job, the defense trying to paint a picture of Barney's.

Greg had joined AltruCell in the 80s, quickly rising to a vice president in the company. He was in charge of managing the corporation's various international contracts, and had a reputation in the company for being something of a "fixer"… to which Nosek, in cross, clarified that a reputation for getting results was in no way indicative of criminal acts. There _had_ been a lot of hiring and firing in Greg's department, but that had all stopped around 1998, after Barney was hired. Barney had quickly gotten a reputation as Greg's protege, and had seemed to genuinely enjoy Greg's mentorship. The VP of marketing remembered witnessing a transformation in Barney after only a few months under Greg's wing: the awkward kid quickly transforming into what the VP called "like a mini Greg. Stinson even started talking like him."

Over the years, Barney had become more established in the company, and became known as "the guy you go to if you need something… you know, maybe a little loose on the books… to happen," according to the executive. Especially as AltruCell gained business interest in both Koreas, Barney had made himself invaluable. "The bosses loved him," said the executive. "Everyone called him the future of AltruCell."

When the company had bought Goliath National Bank in 2008, Barney had been one of the executives hand picked to make the transition. Nosek managed to get the VP to speculate that it was so Barney would have access to complex money laundering options, which Marini objected to: left on the record was the fact that among a certain group that had made the jump from AltruCell to GNB, everyone still "kind of knew", according to the executive, that Barney still reported to Greg, and was the one with his finger in both company's dirt.

Nosek had the executive clarify that people _assumed_ Barney reported all the illegal stuff to Greg, and that he had no proof.

Marini made sure the VP clarified that Barney's confidence and personality change happened only _after_ Barney first made contact with the FBI.

It's all frankly fascinating to Robin, both as a reporter and as Barney's… friend. ( _lover. ex-wife.)_ Even having gained a clearer picture of what he did for a living after their wedding and in the ramp-up to the trial, Barney had never really sat her down with a timeline: he never liked to talk all that much about his past, let alone the timeline and political details of it.

But it also doesn't escape her that as the day continues, Barney's hand still grips hers tightly, his expression exactly the same every time she looks.

Judge Clarke releases them for the day just before three: court will reconvene on Wednesday. The courtroom immediately fills with murmurs of conversation and people rising from benches to stretch stiff muscles.

Robin isn't the only one to immediately look over at Barney, wondering what he'll do — but he springs to his feet, smooths out his jacket, and looks confused at the way everyone is looking at him expectantly. "Guys, what the hell?" he asks mildly. "Let's get out of here, come _on_."

In the bottleneck caused by Lily trying to get to her feet, Ted and Marshall begin to talk about what they just heard. "Was it really okay for them to just turn every answer into 'But it was Barney's fault?'" Ted asks.

"It's all strategy," Marshall says, helping his wife up by acting as a human handhold for her. "It's not like Barney's lawyers didn't know this defense was coming, so if they aren't objecting, it's for a reason. Probably they're sitting on some evidence."

"Sure," Ted says indignantly, "but how much of this is he supposed to take? They should be defending him, not letting those guys say whatever they want."

"Barney isn't on trial, though," Lily grunts, finally on her feet, slowly gathering her coat and purse. She's so big she looks like she's about to tip over: Marshall seems to have the same idea Robin does, as he holds her by the shoulder.

"What I want to know is, how much of any of that stuff is even true?" Tracy asks, turning to give Barney an unreadable look. Robin glares at her over Barney's shoulder.

"Mr. Stinson will not comment or speculate at this time," Frank Ross says mildly, approaching the group and waiting as they file out from the benches. Portly and graying, Ross looks, as always, more like someone's older father than an FBI agent, let alone one who has been working with Barney for fifteen years. "Barney, I wanted a quick word with you."

"Okay," Barney says evenly, shrugging. Robin notices Ted frowning at him.

"And Ms. Scherbatsky," Ross says, looking over to her, "Ms. Flores wanted a word with you, if you don't mind."

She had no idea what Barney's publicist could want with her, her mind immediately flashing to a month before, the disastrous meeting she'd had with the team. The fight with Barney in the lobby.

Ross and Flores accusing her of using her press connections to potentially sabotage the case.

Or had that been Barney…? She can't remember anymore, only remembers yelling at him, his shoes against the marble, calling him that night…

She's immediately tense.

"Actually, we were all supposed to meet up on Long Island," Ted says, interjecting with Barney looking blank and Robin's expression stony. "Barney's mom wanted to do this party thing, his brother's gonna be there, Marshall's mom is dropping off all our kids…"

"It won't take long," Ross says.

"What do you want Robin for?" Barney asks sharply.

"I don't really know what Ms. Flores has in mind," Ross says.

"It's okay," Robin says, laying her hand on Barney's arm. "I don't mind."

"I mind," he says, and she feels unexpectedly stung, and very aware that everyone is looking at them, Lily's eyes practically bugging out in her curiosity, Ted's expression deducing, Marshall's confused and Tracy's unreadable.

Barney's is tense. Robin uses all of her television expertise to keep hers schooled and neutral. She wants to tell him _it isn't up to you_ , or maybe ask him why he cares, but they're not fighting anymore and she doesn't want to start. "Okay," she says, her face frozen and bland. "If it bugs you, I won't do it."

Ted's eyebrows go _way_ up, and Barney frowns in confusion. "Wait — seriously?"

Robin shrugs and tries to smile. His shoes on the marble floor. _We're not friends_. _Don't leave me_. Be a good friend. Be good. Be selfless. Be what he needs, for once, just for once… Barney's face melts into uncertainty, but…

"Unfortunately," Ross cuts in, "I'm going to have to insist. Barney, if you don't mind coming with me?"

They all follow Agent Ross and Barney out of the emptying courtroom. "This really won't take long," Ross adds, starting to lead Barney towards an office. "If you all will just wait here, it shouldn't be more than fifteen minutes."

"Okay, sure," Lily says, making her way over to a bench. It's mostly full, but two suited men leap to their feet at the sight of her, and Marshall squeezes in next to his wife, leaving Ted, Tracy, and Robin to stand nearby.

"She really shouldn't be coming out here…" Tracy says, biting her lip and still eyeing Lily. "Do you think if we all said something, she'd stay home with the kids Wednesday?"

"Marshall might go for it, but Lily'd probably kill us for saying it. She's only one day past due," Robin says. "It's not like I really know how this works, but that's okay, right? It's not like Lily's going to explode." What _does_ happen when you don't go into labor on your due date, anyway? Does the baby just keep growing and growing? She bites her lip.

"She'll be okay, but if she goes into labor in the courtroom…"

"Man, Marshall would kind of love that, though," Ted says lightly. "Not the Lily going into labor part, but if he was born in a courtroom… that was somehow sanitary and if there was a doctor on hand. Oh! And if she _did_ have him here, they could name him Marley _Justice_."

"Dude, that's an awesome name!" Tracy exclaims, giving her fiancé a high five.

Ted turns grinning to Robin, probably hoping for another high five, but she's mostly in the middle of a mental scenario where Lily just keeps getting bigger and bigger and eventually delivers a 20 pounder. His expression goes more somber. "More importantly, what was that in there?"

"What was what?" _How would they even get a 20 pound baby out of Lily_? Robin blinks a couple of times in confusion.

"That…" Ted looks at Robin, up at the high ceiling, and then over at Tracy.

"That kind of weird 'sure, honey' you pulled back in court?" Tracy suggests.

"That!" Ted agrees, nodding eagerly. "What's been going on between the two of you?"

"Nothing!" Robin says. It comes out too shrill. "Nothing," she says again, clearing her throat. They're not buying it, that's obvious at a glance. She huffs and brushes her hair back. "Barney's publicist probably just wanted to make sure I wasn't a WWN mole or whatever," she says. "As ironic as that would be in a case about moles, I'm obviously not, so I didn't need to meet with her."

"That makes sense, but that wasn't my question," Ted says. "Are you two back together?"

She starts to say _yes_ , and then _no_ , but nothing comes out, her voice freezing in her throat. "No," she says, her voice faltering. It's too much to hope that no one heard it; Ted's brows furrow. Of course, she'd be an idiot if she didn't think Lily hadn't told everyone what had happened on Halloween. After Halloween. How Robin had started to leave, and Barney had brought her back. How they'd come to court together this morning, how she was wearing a dress he'd picked out and liked…

How last night she'd been worried he'd been stressed for today, how _she_ had been stressed for today, and had decided — in the spirit of friendship — to _take care_ ofhim a little, get rid of that tension, and how he'd totally melodramatically played up a sudden fit of depression, just to get her to spoil him more.

Of course she'd called him on it, and he'd cracked up laughing — _you think I'm Ted or something_? — and he was _laughing_ , he wasn't stressed, and maybe he hadn't been all along, but he was _laughing_. He was happy.

She made him happy.

For once.

"No, Ted, we're just friends. I'm supporting him just like you guys are."

"Somehow I don't think _that's_ true," Tracy says wryly. She has a point, and Robin has to fight a smirk.

"Lily told us he got you from La Guardia," Ted says, unable to let anything go.

"Yeah, we had a big talk — we're friends again. It's cool. It's fine. It's great."

 _What do you want me to say? I'll say it_.

She'd cried and cried, and his expression was carved from ice.

It wasn't that she thought Barney didn't care — that he'd been unaffected — but, well, had he? Had he cared? What was he thinking? Why was he letting her… was it just for the sex? No. No, of course not. But what had been going through his mind?

 _You're always yelling at me_.

Yes. Okay. Fine. And he was always taking it, just taking it, and the Barney she knew had never been the stoic type.

 _I'm terrible,_ he'd said last night in bed. _I'm the worst. The mean lawyers are just gonna throw me in jail._ He'd been whiny and melodramatic and she'd been sitting astride him, hands pinning his biceps to keep him from squirming, and he'd barely been able to keep a straight face. _Are you gonna make me feel better_?

They'd just been messing around. She hadn't taken it seriously; she still doesn't. But the answer is _yes_.

If that's what he needs — to- to sleep with her, to be spoiled a little, if that's what makes her a good friend… good temporary… whatever…

She was a failure at being a wife. She can at least do this.

"Just great," she says again, firmly, because Ted doesn't look like he believes a word she's saying.

"So what happens when the trial ends?" Tracy asks. Her voice is calm, pleasantly curious. She has a way of framing all her pointed questions like that.

"I'm not sure yet," Robin says in an even voice. It's the truth. It doesn't cost her anything to say. She's not ready to think about it.

She decides to spend the rest of her waiting time with Marshall and Lily, but Barney comes back, by himself, before she even makes it to the bench. His jacket is buttoned, but he has no other signs of stress — just his new standard blank expression, a little amused, very controlled. "Hey, let's get going. Mom's probably three glasses in by now."

"Things going okay, buddy?" Ted asks, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Yeah, that was totally useless," Barney says. "Ross just wanted to remind me about witnesses and not to talk to the press." He glances over at Robin for a half second, and she isn't sure if he means it as a joke or some kind of insult.

"That's gonna make the drive home kinda awkward," Robin says with forced cheer. He smirks, ducking his head, and she feels a little better.

"You're still staying together?" Lily asks conspiratorially, as the group of six meanders towards the courthouse doors.

"Like I said, I have the room," Barney says flippantly. As they approach the doors, he straightens his tie and flicks an imaginary strand of hair back into place.

"Want us to go ahead of you?" Tracy asks.

"Only if you don't wanna be in the photos," Barney shrugs. There's a small crowd at the doors, not reporters, just a traffic jam of people coming and going and security, and the gang's pace slows dramatically as they wend to the doors while trying to stick together. "I'm cool however we run it, at least I'm wearing real clothes today."

"Would it help if I walked out with you?" Robin asks.

"Whatever you want," Barney shrugs. He scans the crowd in around them, and stops walking so quickly Marshall almost crashes into him.

"I mean, it might be a good PR look, since I'm on the news and all —" Robin is saying, not really paying much attention.

Barney, ignoring her, surges forward a couple of steps and taps a woman on the shoulder. She turns around: she's a pretty blonde woman of medium height, wearing a blue pantsuit that brings out her eyes. There's something familiar about her, although Robin can't place her — and her heart is pounding unpleasantly, looking from the women to Barney, hoping he'll read her mind. _He can't be… what is he doing?_ Robin knows he likes blondes, but she's standing _right here_ —

The woman looks confused, and then smiles cautiously. "Oh, hi, Barney."

"Hey," he says, leaning back on his heels, then forward again. "I didn't see you in court today." His voice is gentle, eager to please, a soft smile on his face. It looks out of place. It feels like someone just slapped her.

"I was running a little late…" she looks around at all the others: Robin isn't the only one staring in confusion, although her face feels hot and she doesn't think anyone else is suddenly humiliated. She has the sudden, jealous urge to take Barney's hand, lay some sort of claim on his body.

"These are my friends," Barney says eagerly, sliding his hands boyishly into his pockets. "Ted, he's my best friend, sorry Marsh, Marshall, Lily, Tracy, and Robin."

 _And Robin_. Her heart is pounding in her ears. "Hey," she says, wrapping her hand around his forearm, smiling, "it's nice to meet you."

"You too, um, —" as she speaks, a man in a suit, hurrying towards them, calls out: "Ms. Lowe!"

"Sorry!" Lowe calls back. She gives a little apologetic grimace, half an eyeroll, up at Barney. "No talking to the bad guys," she says wryly. "I have to go. I'll see you later?"

"Yeah," he says warmly. "See you soon."

With a little wave, Lowe pushes her way through the crowd to her companion. Barney takes a couple of steps towards the door, but stops when he realizes the rest of them aren't following. "What?" he asks, confused.

"What the hell was that cute little _see you soon_?" Lily demands incredulously.

"Dude," Marshall says warningly, giving a pointed glance Robin's way that she notices and doesn't appreciate.

"I've seen her around before!" Ted hisses. "She's part of the legal team or something."

"Barney, you can get in serious trouble for this," Marshall says.

"Can we not talk about this right here?" Barney says hotly. "It's not what you think! I'm not messing with a witness." _Witness tampering_ , he'd said, last week at the airport.

"So what _was_ that?" Tracy asks, in her calm accusation voice.

Robin says nothing. Her heart and brain feel far away. What does it mean? Why had he looked at her like that? Why had he smiled at her in that way?

Barney looks up at the vaulted ceilings. "Nothing. No one. Did you like her, though?" He clears his throat and scratches his neck. "Guys… that was Shannon."


	14. july again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH HEY EVERYONE. Sorry this chapter took forever — holidays plus video games plus the realization that I had accidentally planned a Big Chapter kind of all added up.
> 
> Certain conversations and events in this chapter are repeated from the chapters 'What Happened In July' and 'The Perfect Month', in some cases word for word, so it may or may not make more sense if you re-read those before diving in here.
> 
> And yeah… this is another two parter chapter. Next one should take us back to the present.

 

 

 

**June 15th, 1994.**

**Port Richmond, Staten Island.**

 

 

 

Barney can't remember the word for  _conscientious_. He's not even sure offhand that there is one, not exactly: he can remember  _sincere_  and  _hard working_ , but he left his Korean-English dictionary under his bed.  _I consider myself a_  is as far as his essay has gotten.

It was James's idea. "You want to go for a Korean major, don't you?"

"Well, uh," Barney had said, lying on James's floor while James was lying on his sofa. They were playing Mortal Kombat, the new one. "You know, East Asian studies, as a minor. Cornell has a good program, Mrs. Richards says, and then if I get a Master's in International Development, she says I'm a shoo-in for the Peace Corps… But it's not like I have great grades or any kind of resume, I worked in a  _deli_ , and I really have to get that scholarship anyway…"

Just then, Jax KOs Bakara. "Suck it, bro!" James crows. Barney groans and throws down his controller, then picks it back up. "You're not focusing," James says. "You're worrying too much about it and that's why I'm kicking your ass."

"That's easy for you to say," Barney had grumbled, rolling onto his back and peering at the TV upside down. "Mom never shuts up about how you're her big successful business man." He says it tauntingly, but he's also a little jealous. What is he doing? He's not going to be big and successful. He might help change the world in some tiny way, but even though Mom is okay with his dreams, she kind of gets this look on her face whenever he talks about Burma or Cambodia or Laos, like, concern and disbelief and he hopes he can prove her wrong, but also, what is he thinking? He has to get a full scholarship to even get  _into_  Cornell, and he has no skills, and he's not cool or a football player, and…

"Dude, stop spacing out!" James complains.

"I can't help it! I'm supposed to have my essay done in  _three weeks_  and I want to make a good impression!" But Barney shuts up, and they get through the next match without more on it.

James wins again. "You know what would be really flashy and kind of cool?" James says. "Why don't you write like, a paragraph in Korean? You're going to be an East Asia minor, so prove you're already all Asian and stuff!"

"I can't write a whole paragraph in Korean," Barney says, aghast.

" _Please_ ," says James. "Whenever I go to the deli and you're there, you and Mrs Park are talking nonstop."

…So maybe Barney had picked up some Korean in the five years he'd been helping out at the deli. And maybe it was easier for everyone when he'd taught himself (with Mrs Park's help) to read and write Hangul. But obviously he can't remember if there's a word for  _conscientious_  and so this was a stupid plan and he's a failure and will never, ever get into the Peace Corp and help change the world.

Barney crumples up the sheet of notebook paper he's been using for scratch paper, and, in a fit of pique, throws it across the coffeeshop into the trash can a few feet away. Because he's always been a great basketball player, he makes the shot. At least he can do that, even if he is never going to get accepted into college. He tears out another blank sheet and starts jotting down new words, trying to rephrase the troublesome sentence into something new.  _Because I have always been a hard-working and talented person_ , he writes in Hangul.

He's been working on this essay nonstop for the last week, first at home — which didn't work, because Mom kept coming up to his room to chat or inviting him to eat or play cards with her and her friend Rhonda — and then at James's — but James kicked him out for "being too whiny and annoying while I'm trying to watch the game" — and now here, at a Port Richmond coffee shop he's never really been in before. Barney isn't a big coffee drinker: he doesn't like the bitter taste, but when he'd passed by the first time he'd seen lots of people sitting and working, a few guys even with  _laptops_ , and no one had minded him doing the same. He comes in in the morning, orders a coffee which he sips at for hours, and works.

He needs to finish the sentence with something about how his work ethic drives his passion, which is helping the unfortunate receive advantages that should be afforded to all people… he's trying to phrase it in his head and translate it into Korean, which isn't the easiest thing in the world. He's mentally correcting his grammar when one of the cute girls who work behind the counter approaches his table with a napkin.

"Um, I'm still drinking this," he says, lifting his mostly-full and completely cold mug and taking a sip of coffee.

"Okay," she says. She hesitates. "I saw that three pointer you made a minute ago."

"Huh?" Barney looks up at the girl, over to the trashcan, and then it clicks. "Oh, jeez, sorry, if that's not okay, I didn't…"

"No, it's fine! Nice shot," she says, blushing. She looks about as nervous as he feels, which makes Barney feel a little better. He doesn't know what else to say, and she lingers next to his table, wringing her napkin in her hands. She takes a deep breath and sits at the empty chair opposite his. "And, um, the other day, were you… practicing magic tricks?"

"What?" Barney feels his face turn red. He can't remember what she's talking about, but, "Oh, um, gosh, it's nothing… sometimes when I don't have anything to do, with, you know, my hands, I'll play around with a coin or something…" He'll palm it, reveal it, move it from hand to hand, practicing without even thinking about it.

"It was pretty cool!" she smiles and tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ears. "I love magic. I've, um, I've kind of been watching you all week."

"You love magic?" Barney asks. She nods, biting her lip and smiling at her lap. His heart is pounding, his face feels red.

"Yeah!" she says. "Um, it's nice to finally meet you," she says, looking shyly up at him. "My name's Shannon."

 

 

 

**May 14th, 2016**

**Manhattan, New York**

 

 

 

A week after coming back from Argentina, Barney hires a cleaning service to get rid of all of Robin's things.

It's the only thing he can think of: he tells them to pack away everything that isn't a utensil or a suit and leaves for the day, just gets out of town. He avoids his friends because they'd have questions for him,  _pity_  for him, and he can't visit Mom because she'd want to hug him, and James and Tom almost broke up but worked it out because they're in  _love_  and  _want to be together_  and right now all that stuff just makes him angry, just makes him impatient and itchy to break things. He goes to Laser Park and kicks ten year old ass after ass, until the bright lights and AC and bad techno music have scrubbed away everything else he's thinking, until he's feeling better again (and slightly sick from cheese pretzels).

When he gets home, his apartment is empty.

There's the new sofa, the chairs, the cups in the cupboards, the silverware in the drawers. The shards of the wedding china he'd smashed have been cleared away. So have the throw pillows and scented candles and patterned towels and jewelry and clothes and photos and books and socks and makeup and maple syrup and paintings and saved birthday cards and hockey skates and magazines and shopping lists and Celine Dion CDs and guns and body wash and toothbrush and nail clippers and potted flowers and cookbooks and mugs and Canada magnets and red wine and peanut butter and…

But not everything get tossed. His suits are still there. His stormtrooper.

The things she'd taken with her when she'd left.

And one banker's box, left on the kitchen counter with a note from the cleaners — valuable items they hadn't felt right tossing or taking. Isn't that always how it goes with him and Robin? A relationship relegated to a single box? He has a drink and then checks it, but it's not photos and mementos: it turns out to be most of her jewelry, diamonds and necklaces he'd bought her or she'd bought herself. He tosses the whole thing in the back of a closet because they'd mess up the garbage disposal.

Over the next few days, he finds other things that were overlooked. Pain killers in the medicine cabinet, hairpins in weird spots, he contents of their box of sex toys, a bottle of shampoo. He tosses it as he finds it, not feeling an ounce or remorse or regret or anything at all. Every time he opens the trash can it's a relief, one more thing gone, one more thing erased. When there's no sign she ever lived here, ever was here, ever,

(ever was sleeping in his bed when he woke up, ever grumbled or pushed a pillow at him or smiled when he woke her, smiled up at him and asked him what he was doing, said good morning to him, just that, just like that, not because of sex or because he'd said something funny or because they were friends, but because even just waking up, even first thing in the morning, she was happy, she was happy to be there, be happy to be in his bedroom of his apartment as his —)

when there's no longer any proof she ever existed, he's sure the feelings will stop.

By the end of the week, he's stopped finding scraps of her. By the time their anniversary rolls around, he's forgotten her so thoroughly that he goes out and has a great time for nine hours at Laser Park and doesn't think about her once because relationships are stupid and he's always known and felt this way.

At the end of the month, he finds the photo.

He's not doing anything one night, flipping through an old issue of Esquire. He has a subscription because it's the kind of magazine he should be into, but really he thinks it's pretty boring, never reads the articles, just likes the photos of the hot women. He's had this issue on his coffee table for months, can't remember the centerfold, is a little bored one night, opens it up just to check…

And it falls right to the centerfold. Right to the photo, stuck as a bookmark, between the pages.

Hot, blonde young actress in a teeshirt; Robin in her wedding dress.

He's so stunned he can't move.

He closes the magazine, throws it on the cushion beside him, presses his fist against his closed mouth until he can breathe again, takes a sharp breath, his palms grinding against his eyes, elbows into his knees.

It's not fair. It's not fair it's not fair it's not fucking fair it's not fair it's not —

She's leaning against him, her body is warm and heavy, too heavy, he can't move his arm, he tells her so and she says  _too bad_  in a warm voice, chuckles when he wriggles his arm to try to escape, she's warm and her hair is on his shoulder, against his neck, sweet smelling, she had this bodywash that smelled like sugar and vanilla — too sweet for her, she'd said, never bought it again, but he'd loved it, it drove him crazy, she was warm and sweet and heavy, leaning against his arm, his left arm, his left hand, he'd kept wanting to touch his ring, it felt weird, something new, but she'd been leaning against him and he couldn't keep reaching over himself to play with it, he was talking to Marshall and Lily and the rain thrummed on the roof, the rain thrummed on the roof of the tent of their wedding, their wedding, their wedding, and he'd never been happy, had never known what it felt, to not be posturing or pretending or ignoring the dark corners of his brain, he'd never been happy, he'd never been at one hundred percent, never been sure that what he was feeling was happiness, not without a corner of doubt, a corner going there must be a trick, she'd been leaning against him at their wedding and he'd —

He pushes it down.

He pushes it away.

When he's finally able to open the magazine up again, he pulls out the photo, the one he'd found in Lily's album and taken because of Robin's cleavage in it. It had made her laugh when he'd pointed it out. He had forgotten about it after that. She'd found it again, found it and put it in a magazine and scrawled on the back:  _my boobs are way better lol_ , LOL, like it's a text message, left it there for him to find but he never had until now.

He throws it in the trash in the kitchen, turns away, turns back and pulls it out. No.

He can't.

He'll shred it, he decides — put it through the garbage disposal, turn these feelings into anger into scraps of paper.

But he can't.

He sticks it behind a magnet on the fridge and tries to forget about it, but whenever he sees it he feels sick and coiled and unhappy.

 

 

 

 

**June 4th, 2016**

 

 

 

He pushes through. Ted helps, his friends help: it's easier to not think of the bad things, the dark things, the waves and oceans of it, when he's around them, distracting himself with them. He can tell they're worried, but they don't push it: when Lily tries, he avoids her, hangs with Ted instead.

For a while, it's he and Ted, closing down MacLaren's like the old days — it's good, it helps, it's like all the years in between never happened, but then Ted ruins it every night with "I have to go back, Tracy's expecting me."

But it's okay. It's cool. It's fine. Ted still answers his calls, and Barney pushes it a little, calling him at times he knows Ted will be busy, just to check, to make sure. You still care, right? You still will answer, right?, translated as  _let's go to MacLaren's_  or  _let's go mini golfing!_  Ted always answers, even if he keeps leaving for his house in the suburbs.

But eventually, he loses that, too.

"Dude, come on," Ted is saying, over the phone. "I've gone out with you twice a week for the past  _month_."

"Exactly," says Barney, sitting on the edge of his bed. He'd been trying to decide between three different tie options when he'd had the idea to call. "Today's Saturday, and we haven't been out at all this week. We're under quota!"

"Seriously, bro. I can't keep leaving Tracy to take care of Penny by herself," Ted says. "Plus I'm teaching summer classes starting next week — what am I supposed to do, just totally abandon my family to hang out with you?"

"But hanging out with me is awesome!" Barney says, his voice getting a little whinier than he'd been planning for.

Ted sighs loudly. "No, Barney. I can't just hang out with you anymore."

Something clenches in his chest, but he doesn't know what. "You don't want to be friends anymore?" he asks weakly, feeling gut punched.

"What? No!" That doesn't help. "I mean, no, of course we're still friends! We're still brothers. But I have a family. Come on, even you get that."

Barney feels a little better, but not much. Because he doesn't get that. He doesn't have that. He's never going to have that and he never wants it and it sucked when he had it anyway and he doesn't believe in things like — he grips his duvet. "What, so you'd rather be a lame and boring middle-aged  _loser_  instead of awesomeing with me?"

"Barney," Ted says, making his name into an annoyed whine.

"Whatever, dude," Barney says, heated. "Go live your life. I don't care."

"Hey," Ted says, his voice desperate to be liked. "I'm going to be in the city next week for my classes. Why don't you tag along? It's like a whole week of field trips! Maybe we can even do some pollstering, what do you say?"

Barney knows it's a mollification, but he doesn't have it in him to refuse. "Okay, see you Monday," he says. He hangs up, feeling better but also weirdly worse.

His apartment is silent around him.

 

 

 

**June 6th, 2016**

 

 

 

It turns out to be a pretty lame field trip.

"Now, any of you with any knowledge of astrology will notice that the constellations on this famous ceiling," Ted is saying, his voice booming in the din of Grand Central Station's main hall, "is in fact, backwards. Were you to look into a clear night sky, you would see the stars aligned in a mirror image of these painted imitations. Is this a mistake, or a deliberate design choice?"

Barney really couldn't care less. Ted continues to drone on and on to his students, about half of them looking like they actually care. By force of habit, Barney kills time the rest of the lecture playing  _how would I bang?_  with random female passerby: Blonde with book, pretend to have read it. Dyed red-head with ironic Star Wars bag, act like he cares about her interests (and don't actually mention Star Wars). Black haired chick looking anxious is new to the city, offer to show her around. Blonde with glasses and a ponytail, just give her attention, she's clearly never had a dude hit on her before.

So far, it's just a game. Barney's aware that at some point it won't be, he'll reach some point and pick up a woman, but he doesn't know when that point will be. He'd like it to be more than just because he hasn't gotten any in a while — maybe he'll meet someone, or maybe there'll be a woman who needs to get some or she'll die of some rare illness, so that he's busting his slump on a good cause. He doesn't like it that the last woman he's fucked is Robin. It's like some badge, some mark on his skin, but it's one he's strangely reluctant to get rid of. But if it were for a good cause…

A blonde with too much makeup and too obviously wearing an 'outfit' stomps by (tourist who has never been to New York before and is trying to hard to act like she belongs; he just has to promise to show her Brooklyn and SoHo and let her disparage of tourist attraction and he's got her, but her name is probably Ashleigh or Becky and she's no one, she doesn't matter) — and suddenly he's angry with himself, a wave of broiling heat in his belly and throat. Barney Stinson? Holding himself back because he wants it to be  _special_? He wants it to  _matter_ , like he's a fifteen year old girl going to prom? Like having fucked Robin is something to hold on to, some accomplishment or prize, instead of — instead of something that ruined him, destroyed his life, broke him and tricked him into thinking he'd been…

What is wrong with him?

Ted calls the class to follow to the next boring part of Grand Central Station, and Barney almost up and leaves, almost turns and follows Ashleigh or looks for a strip club or vomits until these feelings are gone, until he forgets again, but Ted happens to catch his eye while he's standing there, smiles at him, and he closes his eyes tight and takes a breath and follows. He walks with his eyes closed for a couple of steps — not long, but long enough to bump into someone. "Sorry," he mutters, not really meaning it.

"Oh, it's okay," one of Ted's students says to him, smiling shyly up at him. Mousy brown hair, actually interested in what Ted is talking about, knee-length skirt. Naive and easy pickings.

Her name turns out to be Louisa.

 

 

 

**July 15th**

 

 

 

He wakes up on the 15th a little hungover, with the idea of a Perfect Month fully formed in his mind. And why not? It's the best idea he's had in years, the perfect way to celebrate Not A Father's Day, the perfect way to get his mind off of things. He'd been right all along to think getting back in the game would ease his mind: he's never felt better. He can open his fridge no problem.

His friends aren't as supportive, but they've never been able to really understand awesome; the appeal of a challenge: picking up one chick is easy, but it has to be the right one. Picking up thirty in a row? It's something to focus on, something to think about, something to put all his energies and thoughts into, corralling even his less awesome parts into the task.

And it's going  _amazingly_  so far.

As he dresses and checks his phone, he's thinking about going all in on the thing, maybe printing up banners or tee-shirts. Throwing a party on the last day, inviting all his friends to be there in his happiest moment.

He has a voicemail from Ross. Meeting, urgent, be at my office at ten. He checks the time — it's eight thirty. Not even that can bring down his good mood. Besides, he's never nailed an FBI agent. Maybe some girl there will be lucky number eight.

Barney's practically humming when he makes it into the FBI building — through all the security checkpoints, then upstairs to Ross's office, where Ross is already at his desk. "What up?" Barney asks, taking a seat opposite him.

"We just got the witness lists from the defense," Ross says.

"Okay," Barney says. Ross looks at some papers in a manila folder — Barney supposes the list in question — but doesn't say anything for a second. He smirks, leans back in his chair. "What, time for my special skillz-with-a-z? Want me to seduce a hot witness?"

"Absolutely not!" Ross says, with such heat that Barney flinches back, frowns.

"What's going on?" he asks warily.

Ross clenches his jaw and hands the folder across his desk to Barney. "Most of the witnesses are exactly who we'd expect. We're obviously planning to challenge the inclusion of his third wife and Mr. Blauman, but…"

The rest of whatever he's saying turns into static in the back of Barney's attention: the name is halfway down the list.  _Shannon Lowe_.

Shannon. She's not married. She hasn't changed her name. Shannon Lowe. Her long blonde hair, shining as she tucked it over her shoulder. Shannon. Witness for the defense. For the…

"This isn't right," he says, pushing the folder back onto the table. "There is no way Shannon is going to testify for — for that  _douchebag_." For Greg. Greg. He's standing in the coffeeshop again, and they're laughing, they're both laughing. He feels that old sick wave of humiliation and shuts it down. "Nope. Not happening."

"We're going to try and challenge her use as a character witness, but frankly it's going to be an uphill fight," Ross says.

"Why? Who cares? Kick her out! Call her a — a lying  _liar_  and get rid of her!" She laughed. She laughed, and he showed her, didn't he? So why would she… why is she on this list? It doesn't make sense.

"Mr Fisher's legal team is making this about you," says Ross, leaning forward, his hands folded on his desk. "By bringing your ex-girlfriend into this, they're clearly going to tell that story; say that you were angry at being cheated on, dumped, and framed Mr. Fisher over the course of many years."

"But that is what happened!" Barney protests, standing up because he can't sit still. He touches his jacket, smooths it out, feels it under his palms. He's not like that, he's not that person, he's awesome, he's amazing, he's not that guy anymore. "Except I  _didn't_  frame him, I didn't even have to!"

"Yes, Barney, I'm aware," Ross says impatiently, watching Barney pace the length of his small office.

Barney presses his fist to his mouth, turns back to Ross. "I have to talk to her."

"You absolutely will not," Ross says firmly.

"No, no, I gotta talk to Shannon," Barney says, not listening. "I can change her mind on this. She won't defend  _Greg_."

"Witness tampering is a federal crime!" Ross snaps, loudly, because Barney can barely hear him. "This is why I called you here; you need to understand what's going on."

"She's not a witness, she's  _Shannon_ ," Barney snaps back, pointing at the manila folder. "I can change this."

"Don't think I won't arrest and charge you!" Ross says, rising to his feet, which shuts Barney up. He stares at him with widened eyes. "This case isn't about your ego or your ex-girlfriend. This is about a corporation that has been sending money and guns to this country's enemies! Mr Fisher is trying to make it about you,  _you_  want it to be about you, but this has nothing to  _do_  with you, Stinson, and if I have to throw you in jail to make my case I will."

His mouth open, Barney sits back down. "But…" he says in a little voice.

"No." Ross sits back down, too. "I understand this isn't easy for you. I understand this must be painful. But you aren't going to have  _any_  contact with Ms Lowe. We're instead going to focus on the case."

"Why did she agree to be a witness?" Barney asks; he can't stop himself, it just comes out.

Ross looks angry for a moment, but answers. "The defense doesn't need to inform us of this. Does she have a grudge against you?"

She laughed at him. He's standing there and she's laughing. Barney's not sure if that's a yes or a no — he's about to say no, but then he remembers.

Almost ten years ago.

Game Night.

They'd talked and he can't remember anymore if he'd intended on it, gone there to do that, but there'd been a moment, they'd been chuckling about something and she'd looked up at him and there'd been an opening… and he'd gone for it, and it hadn't felt like  _love at last_  or a relief or triumphant like he used to imagine when he first started out; he'd been instantly angry again, angry at the things she did (but would never do  _then_ ), her eagerness (she had never wanted to, waiting until marriage had been her idea, he'd been happy to go along with it, he'd been  _in love_ ), and he'd decided he was going to fuck her, he was going to fuck her and lie to her and make her think he cared about her… give her a fraction of that heartache…

Barney winces. Sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Does she… have a grudge against me…" he says slowly, squinting up at the ceiling. "Wow, what a tough question… I'm… I'm wracking my brain here…"

"Okay," Ross says. "We'll assume yes." Barney resists the urge to slouch. "Our next step will be finding character witnesses for you. I don't want to divert too much focus onto you, but reviewing the information, your friend Ted Mosby is a natural choice."

"He'll do it," Barney says.

"He designed the new GNB building, and you've been friends for a decade," Ross continues.

"Try  _best friends_ ," Barney says.

"We'll be in touch with him." Ross kind of hesitates for a second — pulls the manila folder towards him and shuts it. "If the defense is trying to use your romantic history against you, we could use a strong statement from…"

"No," Barney says, the word slipping out of his mouth before Ross even completes his sentence, before Ross can say her name.

"Barney," Ross says, like a statement.

"She's not — she's not gonna want to," he says. He's done a good job, a great job, of not thinking about her, not letting her cross his mind, not here, not at home, not at night, never. He won't let that change now.

"If we can quickly prove that you  _haven't_  been working all these years out of thwarted love for your college girlfriend, we won't have to bother with refuting the rest of the defense."

"Nope, no, no, not happening, bro," Barney says, his head shaking  _no_  as extra punctuation, his heart clenched with panic.

"Have the divorce papers been filed yet?"

He takes a minute to try and calm down. "No." Runs his tongue over his molars. "You gotta be separated for six months. She's coming back in October so we can … do that." That wasn't too bad, but he feels himself continuing: "And then she's taking off again and I will never see or speak to her ever again and that's awesome, that's great, so she isn't going to speak in my defense because she hates me and also I… Wow, it's really hot in here," he says, pulling at his collar and standing up. "Well, nice talk! See you!"

"Barney," Ross says again, and he stops in his tracks. Ross sighs. "When your ex-wife does come back to town, at least  _ask_ , for your own sake. Do  _not_  contact Ms Lowe. I'll see you on Tuesday."

"Bye," Barney manages, and the way out of the building, the way back home, is all a blur.

Later that night, Ted calls him, yells at him. He's still riled up, still rattled and jangly and angry and worked up, Ted yells at him about the GNB building and all Barney can think is shut up, shut up, who cares; an under current of  _forget, don't think about it, don't think about it_  until he's talking about the Perfect Month and forgetting.

It's important to have goals for the future.

 

 

 

**August 3rd**

 

 

 

Lily grips onto his arm as they walk up the courthouse steps.

"Jeez, Lil," Barney grumbles, "I wouldn't have invited you if I knew I was going to get my arm ripped out."

"Listen, buddy, I am six months pregnant with, I swear, the biggest Eriksen baby to date, and you're just gonna have to suck it up."

Barney makes a face. As they stand in line for the metal detectors, he says, "I've always wondered."

"Wondered what?" Lily asks with her eyes narrowed.

"How Marshall got you pregnant  _three_  times. Surely after the first gigantic-headed baby, your…"

"I'm gonna stop you right there, tiger," Lily says, and Barney barks out a laugh at her expression as he takes his wallet, phone, and watch, and puts them in the tray for the x-ray.

"I love hanging out with you, Lily," he says gravely when they're through the scanners. "You make me grateful every day that I'm not stuck with that." He nods at Lily's baby bump. He means it mostly as a joke — 83% a joke — but Lily's eyes go all big and sad and he can tell he messed up; he wasn't thinking about it, but now she is, and now he is.

Standing and smoking on the balcony. Ice melting on the kitchen counter. His hand on Robin's stomach in the bathroom…

 _Possible multiple miscarriages_ , the doctor tells them.

He moves his jaw. "Cut it out."

"I didn't say anything," Lily says, which is only technically the truth because her eyes are all big and sad.

"Whatever." His good mood is gone.

Normally, Lily would press it, bug him until he talked about his  _feelings_ , but this is new Lily, pity Lily, and she's stopped doing that. He knows it's just that she feels sorry for him, thinks he's pathetic, thinks he's pathetic and a loser and looks down on him and hates him a little — but he's missed hanging out with her, missed hanging out with  _any_  of his friends, without them looking at him with disgust. If she wants to pity him but pretend she still likes him, he doesn't care.

"So, what's on the schedule for today?" she says in a perky voice she probably used to use when she was a kindergarten teacher.

"It's just a stupid witness thing," he says. That's not true. Today is the day Ross is getting rid of Shannon, kicking her out as a witness because obviously it's ridiculous that she'd even be a part of this. Ross phrased it like  _she has no bearing on the case of the US vs AltruCell_ , which amounts to the same thing. Barney has no idea how he's going to spin it to Lily if she asks questions; he's hoping her pity or pregnancy brain will keep her from trying. "We just have to sit there for a little bit." Ross hadn't wanted him to come, Ross had  _very much_ not wanted him to come, but Barney said he was going to show up no matter what and he'd caved.

"This court stuff is actually pretty boring, huh?" Lily remarks. "It's not like Law & Order at all. Poor Marshall hates it when he has to go to trial."

"That's because Marshall is from Minnesota and has all the courtroom ferocity of a turtle," Barney says, leading the way into the courtroom. It's pretty empty; almost no one besides the lawyers. He makes pointed eye contact with Ross and Marini as he and Lily take a seat in the middle of the room. "Not like a snapping turtle or a badass ocean turtle, but one of those little pathetic guys dudes in flip flops have to gently carry to the ocean."

"Those are the ones that grow up into badass ocean turtles," Lily points out.

The topic keeps them going until the judge comes in and they have to shut up; Barney is tense at first, but it's not too bad. For one, they're calling Shannon by her last name, so when Lily elbows him to ask who they're talking about he can just shrug. He pays close attention but pretends that he isn't: the defense uses a lot of big words about how Shannon is crucial to the origins of the prosecution's conspiracy to frame Greg; Marini is mostly just like  _who cares, this is about arming North Korea_.

Lily starts playing a game on her phone, and Barney even starts to get a little bored, when the whole thing suddenly turns: the defense offers to let Ms Lowe testify for herself.

Barney sits up fast enough that he startles Lily.

Marini says that sounds more than acceptable.

He whips his head towards the door, then back towards Ross, and then the clerk goes  _towards_  the door and he's on his feet, headed up towards Ross. "Why is it acceptable if she talks? We don't want to hear what she's saying!" Barney says, quietly, because Lily is trotting up behind them.

"We're trying to prove a case here, not soothe your ego," Marini hisses, heading up to the bench to discuss with the other lawyer and the judge.

The doors open again and Barney can't help but spin around.

She looks the same.

He'd forgotten until this moment what she looked like — the exact shape of her face, her eyes, her mouth, but he sees Shannon and she looks the same, exactly the same, her long blonde hair falling over her shoulders, the way she walks, the look in her eyes as she walks down the aisle, towards him.

He can't help it, he's not even thinking — he takes a couple of steps towards her. "Hi," he says, his voice coming out soft.

"…Barney," she says carefully. "Hi."

"It's been a while," he says — Shannon looks past him, and a second later Ross has him by the elbow.

"Out," Ross says.

His weird feeling, his soft light and cloudy feeling, evaporates as Ross frog marches him out of the courtroom, condenses into anger. "Dude, lay off!" he protests as Ross pushes them towards the doors.

Ted's waiting outside for them, for some reason; Barney barely notices. He has to get back in there, has to talk to Shannon — but Ross won't let him, and then Lily is there too, and it's all too much; he breaks away from the group, runs his hand over his face, tries to stop this feeling, stop everything, stop this  _anger_ , this boiling anger, he has to go in there and talk to Shannon and make her see, make her understand — he doesn't know what, but he can do it, he can make her — he has to fix this, he has to find her and fix this, he has to tell her that she can't pick Greg over him, he has to tell her that she  _cannot_ , she isn't allowed, that this can't keep happening, over and over, people he thought he loved, believed he loved, believed he was happy with, people just turning and leaving, laughing in his face, pushing him away, turning around and leaving, laughing, looking at him, looking at him in the hotel room the way she'd looked at him in the hospital, when all their friends had surrounded her, everyone but him, and she'd looked up and at the foot of the bed and it had been like she didn't recognize him, didn't know him, that he'd fucked up and been wrong and been pathetic and been stupid and now she didn't know him, didn't want him, had never meant the things she'd said, would never testify in his defense, would never defend him, would never look at him, would never think of him, and all he had was a single photo.

He's standing in front of Lily and Ted, but can barely see them. "I'm taking off," he says, because he's about to die, explode, go crazy.

"You can't just take off," Ted says. He looks at Lily.

Lily gives him a serious look. "Hey, how are you feeling?" she asks, like she had the other day in the park, the new code word,  _I pity you and look down on you and none of us like you anyway_ , which a tiny part of him knows makes no sense but right now… He doesn't know what to say, how to answer that, his brain and body are buzzing, vibrating with things he can't think about.

"Yeah. I gotta go," he says helplessly, already brushing past them towards the door.

 

 

 

**August 4th**

 

 

 

He doesn't go home that night. He stays out, in a cloud, a buzzy cloud, everything he's been feeling and trying not to feel and all his anger and emotions shook loose by seeing Shannon, seeing her in the flesh, not just a name on a piece of paper but a woman looking at him warily,  _warily_ , as if he ever — okay, okay, he did fuck her that one time, but when else had he ever —

He wanders the streets, burning off energy; ends up at a strip club. Not the Lusty Leopard; somewhere worse and anonymous and ugly, but he buys a couple of dances and drinks water and rests against the velvet plush seats, listens to the pounding bass and feels better. More like himself, more like Barney, the buzzing drowned out in smoke and glitter. He's in a dangerous mood, a jump in the Hudson mood, an act and go and move mood, but he has no outlet, no one to take it out on. He's angry, angry and restless, and he doesn't want to call Ted or Lily; he almost calls Robin twice but throws his phone away after close call number two, then sits at a bus stop, head buzzing, until he knows what he needs to do.

He fishes his phone out of the trash and calls a guy.

Twenty minutes later he's in an elevator; two minutes later he's knocking on a door.

Shannon opens it. She's left the chain on; in the light from the hallway he sees her face fall. He holds up his hands. "I just wanna talk."

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," she says.

"I know," he says, smiling a little, a gentle smile, wry; "don't worry. I'm not here to mess things up." She stares at him through the gap in the door. "C'mon, Shannon. Please."

She closes the door, undoes the chain, opens it again. He feels calm, level, smoothed out even; has since the minute his contact gave him her address, since he got in the cab. Shannon is wearing a cardigan; she pulls it around herself and steps out of her apartment. "There's a little deck on the roof," she says. "My son's asleep; we can talk up there."

"Your son…" he remembers that, remembers she has a kid, but the details escape him.

"Max."

"He's what, twelve?"

"Just turned thirteen," Shannon says. Her voice is cautious, wary, but Barney stays gentle, stays smiling and friendly. He doesn't have a plan, he doesn't know what he's going to do, if he's going to talk to her or want to push her off the roof. He needed to see her. He needed to explain.

"That's a good age," he says.

"Yeah, I guess so."

They take the elevator up to the top floor, climb the stairs up to the roof. It's dark, the night still warm, a cool breeze up here. There are a couple of plastic chairs and a plastic table, some plants that look half-dead in the dim city light. The sounds of traffic surround them. "This place is nice," Barney lies.

"Yeah," Shannon says. "I like to come up here and just think, you know? Clear my head." She's just standing there, so he's the one to move across the tar roof, towards the edge. There's a taller building across the street on two sides, but a good view downtown from the third, similar rooftops looking out towards the East River. Barney can pick out the lights of the GNB tower, the edge of the WWN skyscraper. He runs his palm over the bricks of the low wall. "So," Shannon says, coming over to join him. "What is it that you were willing to risk a mistrial to talk about?"

He scratches his nails lightly over the bricks. "Why are you testifying against me?"

Shannon looks up at him for what feels like forever, her expression serious, her arms crossed over her stomach. She shakes her head. "Are you kidding me?"

"No. No, I'm not kidding. I want to know. Why would you do that?" He's been faking his sincerity until now, using it to mask other things, but when he speaks he means it, means it with an intensity he hasn't felt in a long while.

"Barney…" she says, sighing and looking up at him. "Last time I saw you, you… you showed up at my door out of nowhere and we hooked up."

He's ready for her to throw an accusation at him, but she doesn't. "And?" he prompts.

"Do you know how shitty that felt?" The old Shannon never swore, never used words like  _hooked up_  or  _shitty_. "I figured it was some kind of closure for you, getting to do me and run…"

"So you're testifying for  _Greg_  because I banged you?" Barney asks. It's what he expected; he's waiting for her to bring up the recording he made at the time.

"No! I figured… god, that was so  _long_  ago. It felt shitty but I figured you were mad at me for… back then, that's why I gave that friend of yours the  _video_."

At the word, his guts clench up; the cloud comes back and he turns himself away from the city. "Yeah," he says bitterly. "Yeah, I remember that. You trying to get all my friends to laugh at me, too."

"No!" Shannon lays a hand on his arm, he almost flinches, and she pulls it away. "No, I had just moved and I found it. I thought you'd want it back, instead of… worrying I still had it, or something." She frowns, looks out towards the city. "I was trying to be nice."

 _Trying to be nice_. It's like she said it in French or Cantonese; his brain has to take an extra minute to process and translate. She  _isn't_  nice. He's known that all along. Shannon props her elbows up on the wall, rests her head in her hands for a moment. "Look, I know I didn't handle things great when we were kids. At the time I really believed I was letting you down easy, but it never really sat right with me after. I thought about it a lot over the years, especially after you showed up at my apartment that time."

He doesn't know what to say, what to think. It's like his whole body and whole brain are on pause.

Shannon pauses again, gathering her thoughts. "Part of me thought that you… got it. That you somehow understood what I was thinking and that I didn't mean to hurt you when I knew I had. So I spent all those years feeling guilty about it… not all the time, but whenever I thought about you, and it sucked, because you were such a big part of my life back then…"

He wants to say something, but the words are caught in his throat, in his stomach, he's gripping the corner of the wall and trying to think of something to say, how much it had hurt, how he  _hadn't_  understood, how he'd never thought she was guilty or sad — but he can't speak, and she sounds like she's not done.

"…And then," Shannon says, her voice flinty, "I find out that  _actually_  you've been in the middle of a ten year dick measuring contest with Greg  _Fisher_."

The feeling is gone; the nervous warmth is gone. "It was not a  _dick measuring contest_ ," he says indignantly.

"How many days after our breakup did you start working for him?"

Barney looks up, away, runs his hand roughly through his hair, "Four."

"I dated him for six months! The whole time I was with Greg, you were just lurking at his office, trying to, to what? Discredit him so I'd run back to you?"

 _Yes_. "No! Not … really, not after like the first week…" his brain is shorting out; he can't think of a lie or convincing spin on the truth. "You just said you were sorry for not giving a shit about me!"

"Did he ever mention me?" Shannon asks. "When you were working for him, did he ever —"

"A couple of times," he says, looking up at the sky. "Not by name." But he'd known. He'd known and it had killed him, torn him apart, left him in pieces, left the things he'd broken — a lamp, a chair, his old text books — in shards —

"You're pathetic," Shannon says. "You're absolutely pathetic. I felt so sorry for you. I felt  _so bad_. And then it turned out you spent all these years on some pathetic revenge quest. When you showed up at my place, was that, what, step six of your ten year plan? Because I will never,  _ever_  get back together with you, not after all this bull."

"I didn't plan for that!" After the first few months, Shannon had barely been part of it: it had been about Greg, about one upping Greg, but then the chance had come along and all the anger he'd ignored had come back… "I haven't been — I got married!"

Shannon's eyebrows go up. "Not when you came to my place," she says like a question.

"After that." He wishes he hadn't said it, except it had been the only proof he had; he can't say he didn't love her or didn't hate her or didn't want to see her humiliated like she did him. But he wishes he hadn't said that. "But I knew her then. I haven't been obsessing over getting you back. Not after the first week at AltruCell."

He hadn't been obsessing over Shannon, he'd fallen in love with someone else who wasn't worth it in the end. Shannon looks wary, angry, but a little mollified, hugging her cardigan around her once more. "When did you fall in love with her?"

He understands the underlying question, for once: Shannon wants him to say he wasn't obsessing by proving he was in love with his wife. But she wasn't his wife back then, and he wasn't in love with her. Or was he? He can't remember, has never tried to figure it out; there'd been just one moment where he looked at Robin and  _knew_  (and he'd figured it was a bus-related head trauma). It hadn't gone away after that. He doesn't know when it started. He looks out towards the WWN building. "Before you gave Lily the tape," he says. "But she was dating my best friend, so I couldn't do anything about it. I didn't cheat on her," he can't help saying, rubbing his heel in it a little.

"Congratulations," Shannon says flatly.

He doesn't know why he says it, something about the haze and the buzz in his head, how badly he wants to prove himself, prove something, make Shannon stop looking at him like that, her because Robin is gone, he'd even fuck her again if that's what it took, but he's all spun around and the night air is sticky warm and the city is loud around them. "We're getting divorced," he says.

It had been hot in Argentina, too hot, uncomfortable in suits, the fans barely helping, they'd had a drunken bender the last day but he'd been drinking before that, drinking too much the whole trip, all he can remember is the drinking and the sticky heat and how Robin had looked as she sat down on the bed, the whole scene heavy, playing slow motion.

"Sorry," Shannon says.

"Yeah, uh," he rubs his eyebrow. "She doesn't — I wasn't good at being married? So she got sick of it and left." He'd let her down, he'd let her down in the hospital room and before and after, she'd looked at him standing at the edge of the hospital bed and looked at him again in Argentina and he'd realized no present, no house, nothing will make it go away, he was no good and had never been, he'd promised to make her happy and hadn't and never, ever had. There was something wrong in him, something broken in him, the thing that had chased her off had made Shannon let him down easy a decade before. He leans against the low brick wall.

"I'm sorry," Shannon says again. She doesn't really mean it, she doesn't sound like she does, she sounds like she's being polite but he doesn't really care, doesn't really notice, he's staring across the rooftop, the dim light, the dead plant, the ocean of tar.

"And I don't feel it?" He can't stop himself, can't hear himself. "I don't feel anything. I'm not happy, but I'm not sad. I'm a little angry, but I don't feel it. I thought she was the love of my life and I don't feel it. I don't feel anything. She left and I went numb and I can feel it in my head, in the back of my skull, and everyone's treating me like I should be crying on the floor and I'm not. I don't feel anything. I go out and sleep with a new person every night and I just feel… numb. That's all I feel, and every day I feel it more, and every day I feel everything else less and less. When you and I broke up I cried and I got mad and I wrote poems and songs and now I don't feel anything. She could walk through the door…" He pictures it,  _sees_  it, going over to the door and she's there and she smiles, that half smile, knowing smile, first thing in the morning smile,  _I'm yours_  smile…

He opens the door and she looks at him like she sees exactly who he is for the first time.

He puts his hand over the spot he thinks his heart is. "I'm  _empty_."

"I don't really know what to say," Shannon says softly.

He looks at her, sharp, abrupt, aware again. "Say you get it."

"I don't get it," she says gently.

He searches for something else; he can't think. "Say you won't testify against me."

"Barney," she says.

"Say you're sorry." She just looks up at him. "Say you're sorry. You're the one who broke me, you're the reason I'm like this. If you hadn't… say it."

She looks up over his shoulder and beyond him. "I was subpoenaed," she says. "I  _have_  to testify." She pats his arm as she walks past him. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

 

 

 

**August 4th**

 

 

 

He goes home. He goes home and he stares at the wall and he stares at the wall and he gets a drink and then another drink and he stares at the wall and he feels nothing, he feels  _nothing_  he is nothing he's nothing made up of nothing just empty air just air and nothing nothing nothing there's nothing there's  _nothing_  there's  ** _nothing_**

Ted comes over; it's raining. Everything is broken, the picture on the fridge is gone.

 

 

 

**October 6th, 2016.**

 

 

 

There's a knock on his door. He opens it, and Robin is there.


End file.
